IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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1.0 


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tMIIIIM    112.5 


IIIIM    IIIIZ2 
2.0 


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1.8 


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Photographic 

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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

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CIHM/ICMH 
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Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibiiographiques 


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of  1 
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the 
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firs 
sioi 
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The 
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y 

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empreinte. 

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et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  ncrnbre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


i    t 

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A 


I 


xV,.N    ( ) !  'EN  QUESTION. 


A    KQYMXu 


BY 


JAME8   ])K   MILLE, 


ViV  TirE   ICE,"   "THE  AMEBICAN   «,UiON,"  ETC.,  ETO. 


r.lUfiTnArTO::::  irJLLniJfn  IliSDKKiVM'i 


J> 


t:TON     AKD     GO  MP  ANT, 

18'..3. 


u 


Al 


^%- 


J- 


Mv' 

^^«.-l 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


1 


A    NOVEL. 


,fc 


JAMES  DE  MILLE, 

AUTlIOn   OF 

"THE   LADY   OF  THE   ICE,"   "THE   AMEEICAN  BAEON,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


WITH  ILLnSTItATTOKS  BY  ALFItED  FUEDEUICKS. 


NEW  YORK: 
D.    APPLE  TON     AND     COMPANY, 

649    &    65  1     BROADWAY. 
1873. 


^^mmmmmmmn 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  tUo  year  18T2,  by 

D.  APPLETON  &  CO., 

In  the  Office  of  tlie  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


£^^  D  7 


OONTENTS. 


CIIAl*TEn  PAOK 

i. — the  manuscuiit  op  thb  monk 

aloysius  ....  1 

ii. — the  catacombs   ...  5 
iii. — the  hidden  treascr.e  0?  the 

cj:sar3   ....  9 

iv. — a  stroke  for  fortcne   .   .  13 

V. VILLENE0TE      .  .  .  .17 

VI. — IS  IT  DELIRIUM  ?         .  .  .22 

VII. THE  GOLD  CRUCIFIX  .  .         27 

VIII. — THE     EDO.VY     CASKET,     AND     ITS 

STRANGE  COSTE.NTS  .  ,         32 

IX. — A  CURIOUS  FANCV      ...         38 

X. THE  FATAL  DRAUGHT  .  .         40 

XI. — DEAD  OR  ALIVE  ?        .  .  .44 

XII. — DR.  BLAKE'S  strange  STORY  .  49 
XIII. — MAKING  INQUIRIES  ...  55 
XIV. — MRS.  KLEIN        .  .  .  ,59 

XV. — INEZ  RECEIVES  A  LETTER    .  .         63 

XVI. — FATHER  MAGRATH       ...         67 
XVII. — FAMILY  MATTERS         ...         72 

XVIII, MORDAUNI  MANOR      .  .  76 

XIX. — THE  LOST  ONE  FuUND  .  .         80 

XX. — AT  HOME  ...  84 

XXI. — BAFFLED  FANCIES       ...         88 
XXII. — THE    RETURN    OF    ANOTHER  MES- 
SENGER .  ,  .  .92 
XXIII. — BLAKE     TAKES     LEAVE     OF     HIS 

FRIENDS        ....         96 
i»33V. — DESCENSUS  AVERNI  !  .  .      100 

XXV.— THE  CITY  OP  THE  DEAD        .  ,      104 


ClIArTER 

XXVI. — BETRAYED 
XXVII. — FILIAL  AFFECTION      . 
XXVIII. — SELF-SACRIFICE 

XXIX. A  STRANGE  MEETING 

XXX. — THE  STORY  OF  INEZ 
XXXI. — IN  PRISON 
XXXII. — LIGHT  ON  THE  SITUATION 

XXXIII. A  FLIGHT  FOR  LIFE    . 

XXXIV. — A  FRESH  INVESTIGATION 
XXXV. — THE  TWO  BROTHERS 
XXXVI. — RUTHVEN 
XXXVII. — HUSBAND  AND  WIFE 
XXXVIII.— REVIVING  OLD  ASSOCIATIONS 
XXXIX. — ^THE  TEMPTER 

XL. — RENEWING  HIS  YOUTH 
XLI. — REPENTANCE      . 
XLH. — THE  TWO  FRIENDS      . 
XLIII. — A  REVELATION 
XLIV. — ALL  THE  PAST  EXPLAINED 
XLV. — THE  TENDERNESS  OF  BESSIE 
XLVI. — BEFORE  HIS  JUDGE     . 
XLVII. — DE  PROFUNDIS  CLAMAVI      . 
XLVI  II. — BACK  TO  LIFE 
XLIX. MRS.  WYVERNE 

L. — A  mother's  plot 

LI. — A  DISCOVERY    . 
LII. — CLARA  MORDAUNT      . 
LIII. — GOING     TO     PRAY     AT     CLARA'i 

GRAVE 
LIV. — CONCLUSION     , 


108 
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116 
120 
124 
128 
131 
136 
139 
144 
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152 
150 
160 
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169 
173 
177 
182 
186 
190 
194 
198 
202 
206 
210 
214 

219 
226 


mimmt 


wfmmammmm 


■MHIBBIB^^ 


AN   OPEN"    QUESTIOISr. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    MANUSCRIPT   OF   THE   MONK    ALOYSIUS. 

DR.  BAPTL  BLAKE  liad  plain  but  com- 
fortiible  .ipai'traents  in  Paris,  on  the 
third  story,  ovcrlooiiing  the  busy  Rue  St. 
Honoro.  A  balcony  ran  in  front  of  his  win- 
d'  s,  upon  which  he  couhl  step  out,  wlicn- 
cvtT  ho  felt  inclined,  to  watch  the  crowds  in 
the  street  below.  On  the  present  occasion, 
however,  the  balcony  was  deserted,  the  win- 
dows were  closed,  and  Dr.  Blake  was  seated 
in  an  arm-chair,  with  a  friend  opposite  in 
another.  It  was  now  midnight,  but,  late  as 
it  was,  this  fi'iend  had  only  come  in  a  few 
minutes  before  ;  and,  by  the  attitude,  the  ac- 
tions, and  the  words  of  both,  it  was  evident 
that  they  were  intending  to  make  a  night  of 
it.  Bottles,  docanter.s,  glasses,  cigars,  pipes, 
and  tobacco,  lay  or  stood  upon  the  table;  and 
Dr.  Blake  was  even  now  offering  a  glass  of 
Burgundy  to  his  visitor. 

Dr.  Basil  Blake  was  a  young  man,  with  a 
frank  ftice,  clear  eyes,  open  ai.d  pleasing  ex- 
pression. His  friend  was  a  fellow-physician 
— Dr.  Phclim  O'Rourkc— with  whom  Blake 
had  become  acquainted  in  the  course  of  his 
studies  in  Paris,  and  who,  in  every  respect, 
presented  a  totally  different  a-pect  from  his 
own.  lie  was  much  older,  being  apparently 
between  forty  and  fifty  years  of  age.  Ills 
frame  showed  groat  muscular  strength  and 
powers  of  endurance.  His  hair  was  curling 
and  sprinkled  with  ^ra}'.  His  nose  was 
straight  and  thin.  Ho  wore  a  heavy  beard 
and  mustache,  which  was  not  so  gray  as  his 
hair,  but  dark,  shaggy,  and  somewhat  nog- 
1 


lected.     His  eyes  were  small,  dark,  keen,  and 
penetrating. 

"I  wouldn't  have  bothered  yecs  at  this 
onsaisonable  hour,"  saidO'Rourke,  who  spoko 
with  u  slight  Irish  accent,  "  but  the  disclos- 
ures that  I  have  to  make  require  perfect 
freedom  from  interruption,  ami  ye  see  yc're 
all  the  time  with  yer  frind  Ilellmuth  through 
the  day,  and  so  I  have  to  contint  mysilf  with 
the  night,  ayvin  if  I  were  not  busy  mysilf  all 
through  the  day.  But  the  fact  is,  the  mat- 
tlicr  is  one  of  the  most  imrainsc  importance, 
and  so  ye'U  see  yersilf  as  soon  as  ye're  in- 
farrumed  of  what  I  have  to  tell.  Ye  know 
I've  alriddy  mintioncd,  in  a  casual  way,  that 
my  secret  concerruns  money.  Yis,  money  1 
gold !  trisure  ! — and  trisure,  too,  beyond  all 
calculation.  Basil  Blake,  me  boy  !  d'ye  want 
to  be  as  rich  as  an  iraperor  ?  Do  ye  want  to 
have  a  rivinue  shuparior  to  Rothschild's  ? 
Have  ye  ivir  a  wish  to  sittle  yersilf  for  life? 
Answer  me  that,  will  ye  ?  " 

Saying  this,  O'Rourke  slapped  the  palm 
of  his  hand  emphatically  upon  the  table,  and 
fixed  his  small,  piercing  black  eyes  intently 
upon  Blake. 

"  Oh,  by  Jove  ! "  said  Blake,  with  a  laiigh, 
"you're  going  too  for,  you  know.  DoVt  ex- 
aggerate,  old  fellow — it  isn't  necessary,  I  as- 
sure you.  Money,  by  Jove  !  I'd  like  to  seo 
the  fellow  that  needs  it  more  than  I  do.  I'm 
hard  up.  You  know  that,  don't  you  ?  Don't 
I  owe  you  five  pounds — which,  by-the-way, 
old  chap,  I  shall  be  able  to — " 

"Tare  an  ages!"  interrupted  O'Rourke, 
"  don't  be  afther  talking  about  such  a  paltry 
matther  as  five  pounds.  By  the  powers,  but  I 
ixpictjif  I  can  only  injuce  ye  to  give  me  a  lift  in 


AN'   OrKX    QUESTION. 


my  intcrprisp,  that  before  long  yo'll  look  upon 
five  pounds  as  no  more  tlian  five  pinco,  80  yo 
will,  ami  there  ye  Imve  it." 

"  Go  ahead,  tlinn,  old  fellow ;  for,  by  Jove  ! 
do  you  know,  you  niiike  nie  wild  with  curios- 
ity by  all  this  mixture  of  illi:nitable  treasure 
ftnd  impenctriiljle  mystery." 

"  Mind,  mo  boy,"  said  O'llourke,  "  I  ask 
nothing  of  ye — only  yer  hilp." 

"  And  that  I'll  give,  you  may  be  sure.  As 
for  any  thing  else,  I'm  afraid  you  can't  got  it 
—not  money,  at  any  rate ;  blood  out  of  a 
Btone,  you  know  —  that's  about  it  with 
me." 

O'Rourko  bent  his  head  forward,  and  once 
more  fixed  his  keen  gaze  upon  the  frank,  hon- 
est eyes  of  Uhiko. 

"  It's  in  Rome — that  it  is,"  said  he, 

"  Home  ?  "  said  Ulake. 

"  Yis — the  trisnre — " 

"Rome?  ah  I  Well — it'a  very convcnicut. 
I  was  afraid  it  would  involve  a  voyage  to  Cali- 
fornia. Rome — well,  that's  a  good  beginning 
at  any  rate." 

"  It  is  —  it's  mighty  convanicnt,"  paid 
O'Rourke.  "Well,  yo  know,  I've  been  in 
.Rome  over  and  over,  and  know  it  like  me  na- 
tive town.  I've  been  there  sometimes  on  pro- 
fissional  juties,  sometimes  on  archayological 
interprises,  and  sometimes  on  occasion  of  any 
shuperiminint  ayelisiastieal  ayvint.  I  may 
mintion  also  tliat  I've  got  a  rilativo  living 
there — he's  dead  now — but  that's  nothing; 
he  was  second  cousin  to  mo  first  wife,  and, 
of  course,  in  a  forryn  country,  such  a  near 
relationship  as  that  brought  us  very  close  to- 
gither,  and  I  nttindid  him  profissionally,  free 
of  charge,  on  his  dying-bed.  It  was  from  this 
rilative — Malachi  McFee,  by  name — that  I  ob- 
tained the  inforrumation  that  I'm  going  to 
convey  to  you.  The  poor  divvle  was  a  monk 
in  the  monastery  of  Han  Antonio.  I  saw  a 
good  deul  of  him,  off  and  on  ;  and  one  day  he 
had  a  fall  in  the  vaults  of  the  monaster)- — he 
had  a  very  bad  conchusion  ;  mortification  set 
in,  gangrane,  and  so  forruth — so  he  died,  poor 
divvle.  It  wa.s  on  the  death-bed  of  poor  Mal- 
achi that  I  heard  that  eame  ;  and  ye'll  under- 
stand from  that  what  credibility  there  is  in 
the  story,  for  a  man  on  his  death-bed  wouldn't 
be  afther  speakin'  any  thing  but  the  truth,  un- 
less he  coidd  get  some  real  future  binifit  of 
some  sort  out  of  it,  pecuniarily,  afther  he  was 
dead,  or  before,  but  that's  neither  here  nor 
there." 


O'Rourke  paused  htio,  and  looked  sharply 
at  niake. 

"  D'ye  care  to  hoar  it  now?  "  said  he. 

"  Care  to  hear  it  ?  of  course.  Don't  you 
see  that  I'm  all  oars  V  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  O'Rourke,  "  so  here 
goes.'' 

As  ho  spoke,  the  deep  toll  of  a  neighbor- 
ing bell  Sounded  out  as  it  began  to  strike  the 
hour  of  midnight.  O'Rourke  paiised  again, 
and  listened  silently  to  the  solemn  sound,  as 
one  after  the  other  the  twelve  strokes  rang 
deeply  out  upon  the  still  night  air,  and,  even 
after  the  full  number  had  sounded,  ho  sat 
as  though  listening  for  more.  At  length  ho 
drew  a  long  breath,  which  sounded  like  a 
deep  sigh. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  said  he,  "  but 
there's  nothing  in  all  the  wide  wurruld  that 
affocts  mo  like  the  toll  of  a  bell  at  midnight. 
I  moind  me,  it  was  in  such  a  night  as  this, 
and  the  bell  was  tolling  just  this  way,  when 
poor  .'rtalachi  died.  'Well — well — he's  dead 
and  gone.     licqukscal  in  pace — 

''  That  same  Malachi,"  continued  O'Rourke, 
"  was,  as  I  said,  a  monk  in  the  monastery  of 
San  Antonio,  at  Rome.  Ilavo  ye  Ivor  been  in 
Rome  ?  No  ?  Thin  there's  no  use  for  mo  to 
tell  you  the  situation  of  the  monastery,  rs  yo 
wouldn't  understand.  It's  enough  to  say  that 
Malachi  was  a  monk  there.  Now,  yo  must 
know  that  San  Antonio,  like  many  other  mon- 
asteries, has  a  divvle  of  a  lot  of  old  manu- 
scripts  in  the  library — some  copies  of  classics, 
some  thaological,  and  some  original — the  work 
of  the  monks.  This  Malachi  was  one  of  the 
most  erudite  and  profound  scholars  that  I 
Ivor  saw.  lie  had  all  thini  old  manuscripts 
at  his  fingers'  ends — ivory  one  of  thim.  Now, 
what  I  have  to  tell  you  refers  to  one  of  these 
manuscripts,  that  was  liaulcd  forth  by  poor 
Malachi  out  of  a  forgotten  chist,  and  studied 
by  him  till  ho  began  to  think  there  was  in  it 
the  rivilatiou  of  some  schoopindous  secret. 
It  was  written  in  Latin,  of  course.  Yo  know 
Latin,  I  suppose — a  little.  Yis — yis.  I  know 
what  the  ordinary  iducation  amounts  to,  but 
could  ye  read  a  manuscript  written  in  Latin, 
in  a  crabbed  hand,  full  of  contractions  and 
corrections  ?  I  don't  think  it.  1  have  that 
manuscript,  and  I've  read  it ;  and  I  know  that 
the  number  of  min  who  could  take  up  that 
and  read  it  as  it  stands  is  not  Lagion  by  any 
means.  I  haven't  the  manuscript  here.  It's 
home,  with  my  valuables.    It  isn't  a  thing 


I 


1 


TUE  MANUSCRIPT  OF  THE  MOKK   AL0YSIU8. 


I'd  carry  about,  but  I've  got  the  substuiico  of 
it  in  UK!  mind.  It's  a  modern  manuscript, 
bound  up  lii<c  a  booli,  not  mucli  larger  than 
wiiat  wo  tail  juodocinio  hIzc,  of  about  a  hun- 
dred jiages  of  the  writing  I've  mintioned. 
Now,  tlio  manuscript  purported  to  have  been 
written  in  tlio  year  sixteen  liundred  nnd  tin, 
and  by  all  appearances  had  uivor  been  touched 
liy  any  l)and  since  it  lift  the  a\itlior's,  till  poor 
Malachi  drew  it  out  of  the  chist,  but  lay  there 
among  piles  of  others,  neglietid  and  unknown. 
]t  purported  to  bo  an  account  of  certain  ad- 
vintures  and  discoveries  of  one  Aloysius,  a 
monk  of  San  Antonio,  some  twinty  years  be- 
fore, whicli  he  had  committed  to  writing,  and 
deposited  in  tlie  ''l""  i  of  the  monastery,  so 
AS  to  transmit  to  the  luturc  some  miniorial  of 
things  *'  t  ho  did  not  wish  to  have  nltogithcr 
forgotten.  Mc  cousin  Malachi  studied  it  all 
over  and  over,  and  he  gave  mo  the  book  on 
his  death-bed,  and  told  me  the  wliole  contints 
juring  my  attindincc  there  before  I  had  iver 
read  a  line  mcself.  Now  I'll  just  tell  you  tho 
story  of  llie  moidi  Aloysius,  fust  of  all,  as  it 
was  told  me  by  me  cousin  Malachi,  and  as  I 
read  it  meself,  and  then  ye'll  begin  to  coraprc- 
hind  what  I'm  driving  at. 

"  Well,  now,  this  Aloysius  was  a  monk  of 
San  Antonio,  as  I  said,  lie  was  a  quiet,  so- 
ber, religious,  contintid  soul,  according  to  his 
own  showing ;  a  good,  average  Christian 
monk,  with  all  his  wants  confined  to  bis  own 
t'loisthers,  and  no  desires  bcyant.  Now  un- 
derneath  tho  monastery  there  were  thin,  and 
there  are  still  at  tliis  day,  vast  and  ixtinsive 
vaults,  stritching  uu<lerneath  the  whole  idifice, 
and,  in  some  places,  Ihey  are  two  stories  deep. 
Here,  in  these  places,  they  seem  cut  out  of 
some  rocky  substratum  —  the  rock  is  soft 
sandstone,  and  must  have  been  worked  easy 
enough — and,  moreover,  it  was  tho  opinion 
of  me  cousin  Malachi,  who  was,  poor  fellow, 
as  I  alriddy  said,  a  divvlc  of  an  archayologist, 
that  these  double-storied  excavations  were  tlie 
work  of  the  ancient  Komans.  Now  it  is  with 
the  mintion  of  these  vaults  that  the  manu- 
script of  Aloysius  begins. 

"It  seems  that  he  was  siut  down  to  tho 
lowermost  vaults  one  day,  in  company  with 
another  monk — Onofrio  by  name — to  remove 
Bomc  wine-casks,  or  overhaul  thim,  or  some- 
thing, whin,  juring  the  course  of  their  labors, 
t!cy  reached  tho  roi'k  forming  the  extreme 
west  end  of  the  vaults ;  and  here,  to  the  sur- 
prise of  both,  they  sa'v  an  archway,  which  had 


been  walled  uj)  so  as  to  prcvint  any  passiiifj 
tlirough.  Tho  sight  excited  both  of  thim  im- 
minsely,  and  they  stopped  short  in  their  work, 
and  engaged  in  some  i>rolonged  argmnintation 
as  to  the  probable  use  of  such  a  passage-way. 
They  dillerred  in  their  opinions:  Aloysius 
holding  that  it  once  was  a  subterranean  pas- 
sage-way to  the  outside  of  tho  city,  made  in 
former  ages,  to  bo  used  in  casu  oi  need  ;  whilo 
Onofrio  eontinded  that  it  ■,.«'  Tintliing  more 
than  a  recess,  closed  up  bet  v  ■  it  was  no 
longer  needed  ;  or  because,  perlsips,  some  ono 
may  have  formerly  been  bii.icd  there.  This 
discussion  excited  thir'  1  th  to  ci.ijh  u  dcgvco 
that  at  lingth  nothing  would  sat'f;fy  a't'  or  of 
thim  but  an  examination.  Onofrii' v.aa  at  first 
oppo  id  to  this,  from  the  bf '  of  ii'iil  some  ono 
had  lieen  buried  there,  and  ho  shrank  from 
tho  discovery  of  some  possible  horror  com- 
mitted in  the  course  of  those  maydiayval  ages, 
when  min  were  burnt  alive,  or  buried  alive,  to 
any  ixtint,  and  all  ai'  inojoran  Dei  gloriam. 
It  was  the  way  of  tho  worruld  in  those  ages, 
and  a  way  that  Onofrio  did  not  wish  to  be  re- 
minded of. 

"  Well,  at  length  they  decided  to  cximino 
it  at  once.  Aloysius  was  the  one  who  did  the 
business.  They  had  a  bit  of  a  crowbar  with 
thim,  which  they  liad  brought  down  to  move  tho 
bar'ls,  and  with  this  ho  wint  at  the  wall.  Tho 
stones  were  small,  and  were  mixed  with  brick  ; 
tlio  mortar  had  become  rotten  and  disinte- 
grated with  the  damp  of  cinterries ;  and  so  it 
was  aisy  enough  work  for  a  brisk  young  lad, 
like  Aloysius  seems  to  have  been  thin.  They 
had  a  couple  of  good-sized  lamps  with  thcui 
all  the  time,  to  give  light  for  their  work  in 
the  vaults,  ye  know ;  and  so,  as  there  was 
plinty  of  oil  in  thim,  they  had  plinty  of  leisure 
for  their  work.  AVell,  Aloysius  says  that  he 
worked  away,  and  it  last  had  a  hole  made  big 
enough  to  see  through.  The  wall  had  not 
been  more  than  six  inches  thick,  and  crum- 
bling at  t!  1* ;  and,  whin  this  hole  was  made, 
the  rest  followed  quick  enough,  I'll  be  bound. 
Well,  the  ind  of  it  all  '"os,  that  tho  wall  at 
lingth  lay  there,  a  heap  of  rubbish,  at  their 
feet ;  and  there  was  the  open  archway  full  be- 
fore thim,  inviting  thim  to  inter." 

O'Rourke  now  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine 
for  himself,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  Blake, 
to  see  how  he  felt.  One  look  was  enough  to 
show  him  that  Blake  was  deeply  interested, 
and  was  waiting  very  anxiously  for  tho  re- 
mainder of  the  story.    O'Rourke  smacked  hi» 


mm 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


lips  approvingly,  set  down  the  empty  glass 
upon  the  table,  and  continued : 

"  Onofrio  shrank  back.  Aloysius  sprang 
through.  Thin  Onofrio  followed,  somewhat 
timidly.  Both  of  thim  held  their  lights  before 
thira,  to  see  the  size  of  the  interior.  It  w.is  a 
passage-way  about  four  feet  wide  and  six  feet 
high,  but  the  length  of  it  they  were  unable  to 
see.  Walking  forward  a  few  paces,  they  still 
found  no  ind  visible  as  yet.  Suddenly  Aloy- 
sius saw  something  which  excited  his  attin- 
tion.  It  was  a  slab  of  marble  about  six  feet 
long  and  a  foot  in  width,  fastened  in  the  side 
of  the  passage-way.  There  were  letters  on  it. 
^oyond  this  he  saw  others,  and,  as  he  stared 
around  in  amazement,  he  saw  that  these  slabs 
were  arranged  on  both  sides,  reaching  from 
the  floor  to  the  top  of  the  passage,  one  above 
another,  three  deep,  and  in  some  places  four. 
Upon  this  ho  turned  to  his  companion,  and 
said:  'You're  right,  Onofrio.  This  is  some 
nncient  bnrial-plaee  of  the  monks  of  San  An- 
tonio.' Onofrio  said  D^thing,  but,  holding  liis 
lamp  eagerly  forward,  tried  to  make  out  an 
inscription  that  was  cit  on  the  marl)le  slab. 
The  slab  was  much  dJ«!colored,  but  the  letter- 
ing was  quite  visible.  These  letters,  however, 
were  apparently  a  mixture  of  different  clmrac- 
ters ;  for,  though  he  could  make  out  here  and 
there  one,  yet  others  occurred  in  the  midst  of 
them  with  which  ho  was  not  familiar.  The 
Latin  word  IN  could  be  made  out,  and,  on 
another  slab,  he  nxade  out  IX  PACE.  On  all 
the  slabs  there  was  a  peculiar  monogram 
■which  was  uniutilUaible  to  them. 

"  '  These  were  all  good  Christians,'  said 
Onofrio;  'for  no  others  would  have  "id 
pace  "  over  their  graves.' 

'"They  must  have  lived  long  ago,' said 
Aloysius.  '  And  they  had  a  fashion  of  writ- 
ing that  is  different  from  ours.' 

"  They  walked  on  some  distance  farther. 
The  graves  continued.  They  were  very  much 
amazed,  and,  in  fact,  quite  schupefied  at  the 
imminse  number  which  they  passed,  all  cut 
in  the  walls  of  this  vault,  all  covered  over 
with  marble  slabs.  At  length,  Aloysiiis,  who 
was  going  first,  uttered  a  cry ;  and  Onofrio, 
who  had  paused  to  try  and  make  out  an  in- 
scription, hurried  up.  lie  found  Aloysius  r.t 
a  place  where  their  passage-way  v.as  crossed 
by  another  passr.ge-way,  which  was  like  it  in 
every  respict — the  same  niches  on  the  walls, 
the  fame  marble  slabs,  the  same  kind  of  in- 
scriptions.   In  addition  to  this  they  saw  that 


their  own  passage-way  still  ran  on,  and  was 
lost  in  the  darkness.  They  both  saw  that  it 
was  far  more  ixtinsivo  than  they  had  ima- 
gined. 

"  '  You  were  right,'  said  Onofrio,  '  such  a 
long  passage  as  this  must  be  more  than  a 
burial-place.' 

" '  Be  the  powers,  thin,'  cries  Aloysius, 
'we're  both  right,  for  it  is  a  burial-place, 
and  if  it  don't  go  all  the  way  out  of  the  city, 
then  I'm  a  haythen.' 

"  Well,  they  walked  on  some  distance  far- 
ther, and  thin  they  came  to  three  passage- 
ways— in  all  respicts  the  same — no  one  could 
have  told  any  differince — and  it  was  this  that 
made  thim  stop  in  this  fust  ixpidition. 

"  '  Sure  to  glorj','  says  Onofrio,  '  it's  lost 
we'll  be,  if  we  go  any  farther,  for  sorra  the 
bit  of  differ  I  see  betune  this  passage  we're 
in,  and  the  rest  of  thim  ;  so  don't  let  us  go 
any  farther,  but  get  back  as  quick  as  wo 
can,  while  we  know  our  way.' 

"  At  this  Aloysius  tried  to  laugh  away  his 
fears,  but  without  success.  Onofrio  was 
afraid  of  being  lost — moreover,  Onofrio  was 
superstitious — and  had  got  it  into  his  head 
that  the  place  was  no  other  than  the  general 
burying-ground  of  pagan  Rome.  He  didn't 
know  but  that  the  pagans  buried  their  dead 
like  Christians;  he  wasn't  enough  of  an 
archayologist  to  decipher  the  inscriptions 
around  him  ;  and  he  was  terrified  at  the  spec- 
taclo  of  so  many  pagan  graves.  Besides,  in 
addition  to  what  they  had  seen,  the  passages 
leading  away  seemed  to  give  ividinee,  or,  at 
least,  indications,  of  an  ixtint  that  was  sim- 
ply schupindous  !  So,  Onofrio  was  bint  on 
going  back,  and  there  was  no  hilp  for  it  but  for 
Aloysius  to  follow.  But  he  swore  to  himsilf 
all  the  same,  that  he'd  go  again  if  he  had  to 
do  it  alone. 

"  So  back  they  wint,  and  Onofrio  wouldn't 
hear  of  stopping  till  they  had  go*  back  behind 
the  fust  crossing,  and  then  he  felt  out  of  dan- 
ger. So  hero  the  two  of  thim,  tiaving  nothing 
ilsc  to  do,  rayzhumcd  their  ifforts  to  decipher 
the  inscriptions.  At  length  Onofrio  called  to 
Aloysius.  Aloysius  went  to  where  he  was 
standing.  He  saw  there  a  slab  cut  in  letters 
which  were  all  Uoman,  without  any  mixture 
of  those  strange  characters  —  (!rock,  no 
doubt — that  had  puzzled  thim  before  —  yo 
know  the  monks  in  those  days  often  knew  a 
little  Latin — Latin  being  the  language  of  the 
Church,  and  widely  used  for  colloquial  pur- 


Ij 


THE  CATACOMBS. 


1,  and  was 

aw  that  it 

had  ima- 

0,  '  such  a 
ro  tliau  a 

Aloysius, 
rial -place, 
)f  the  city, 

istance  far- 
e  passagc- 
D  one  could 
IS  this  that 
tion. 

1,  '  it's  lost 
r  sorra  the 
ssnge  we're 
't  let  us  go 
lick  as  wo 

r^h  away  liia 
)nofrio  was 
)nofrio  was 
to  his  head 
the  general 

lie  didn't 
1  their  dead 
ugh  of  an 
inscriptions 
at  the  spec- 

Besides,  in 
he  passages 
dince,  or,  at 
at  was  sim- 
was  bint  on 
for  it  but  for 
•e  to  himsilf 
f  he  had  to 

Frio  wouldn't 
buck  behind 
t,  out  of  dan- 
ving  nothing 
?  to  decipher 
frio  called  to 
icre  he  was 
cut  in  letters 

any  mixluro 
—  (ireek,   no 

before  —  yo 
)ftcn  knew  a 
iguage  of  tho 
jUoquial  pur- 


poses even  outside  of  the  Church,  at  leasv  'n 
Howe,  by  foreigners  and  pilgrims — and  so  ye 
see  the  two  of  thim  put  their  heads  togither, 
and  made  it  out.  I  remimber  the  whole  of  it. 
It  wasn't  long — it  was  simple  enough — and  it 
told  its  own  story.    Let  mo  see." 

O'Rourke  bent  his  head,  and  seemed  to  be 
recalling  the  words  of  which  he  spoke. 

"  Fust,  there  was  a  monogram  which  nai- 
ther  of  thim  understood.  It's  this — ye  know 
it  well  enough." 

Stooping  forward,  O'Rourke  dipped  his 
finger  in  his  wineglass,  and  traced  ou  the 
mahogany  table  this  monogram ; 


"  Yo  know  that,"  said  he;  "it  stands  for 
Christus,  being  the  two  Greek  initial  letters 
'Ch'  and  '  II.'  It  was  marked  by  tho  early 
Christians  on  their  tombs.  Ye  sec,  also,  it 
makes  the  sign  of  the  cross.  As  for  the  in- 
scription, it  ran  this  way  somehow,  as  near  as 
I  can  remimber  : 

'■'■'■  In  Chrkto.  Pax.  Anlonino  Tinperatore, 
Mariits  miles  sanguinem  effudit  pro  Chrkto, 
Dormit  in  pace.' 

"  So  ye  see  by  that,"  continued  O'Rourke, 
after  a  pause,  during  which  he  looked  with 
his  usual  searching  glance  at  Blake,  "that 
the  place  was  full  of  Christian  tombs.  Ye've 
heard  of  tho  Roman  Catacombs.  Well, 
that's  the  pkice  where  these  two  were,  and 
didn't  knovr  it,  for  the  reason  that  they  niver 
heard  of  such  a  place. 

"  '  Sure  to  glory ! '  cried  Onofrio.  '  It's  no 
pagan  burying-ground  at  all,  at  all.  It's 
Christian,  and  we're  surrounded  by  tho  blis- 
Bcd  rilics  of  martyrs  ;»nd  saints.  Oh,  but 
won't  tho  abbot  be  the  proud  man  this  day 
whin  wo  tell  him  this  1 ' 

" '  Tare  an  ages,  mm ! '  cried  Aloysius, 
'ye  won't  be  afther  tellin' him  yit;  wait  till 
we  find  out  more.  Let's  come  again ;  we'll 
bring  a  bit  of  a  string  with  us,  and  unrowl  it 
as  we  go  on,  so  as  not  to  lose  our  way.' 

"  Well,  with  this  agreement  tBey  left  the 
Catacombt  got  back  into  tho  vaults  of  San 
Antonio,  and,  as  it  was  vesper-time,  they 
rowled  the  bar'ls  against  tho  opening  so  as  to 
hide  it,  and  wint  away  to  rezhumo  their  ex- 
plorations on  the  following  day." 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE     CATACOMBS. 


"So  ye  sec,"  continued  Dr.  O'Rourke, 
"  what  sort  of  a  place  it  was  they  had  stum- 
bled upon.  It  was  tho  most  sacred  spot  on 
earth.  It  was  the  burial-place  of  the  saints 
and  martyrs  that  had  suffered  at  tho  hands 
of  the  bloody  pagans — a  holy  place — a  place 
of  pilgrimage ! " 

At  this,  he  crossed  himself  devoutly,  and 
took  a  glass  of  wine. 

"  Well,  the  next  day  the  two  of  thim  wint 
once  more,  and  this  time  Onofrio  was  as  eager 
as  Aloysius.  The  manuscript  doesn't  say 
what  aither  of  them  wished  or  ixpected  to 
find ;  it  simply  states  that  they  were  eager, 
and  that  they  took  with  thim  several  balls 
of  string,  to  unwind  so  as  to  keep  their 
course.  Well,  this  time  they  wint  on  and 
came  to  the  place  which  they  had  reached  on 
the  previous  day.  They  unwound  tho  string 
as  they  wint;  and,  thus  letting  it  out,  they 
passed  boldly  and  confidintly  beyant  the  place 
where  they  had  turruned  back  before.  Going 
on,  they  came  to  passage  afther  passage,  and 
there  was  not  a  pin's  diflference  between  any 
one  of  thim  and  any  other.  Well,  at  last 
they  came  to  a  place  where  there  was  a  cross- 
pasEoge,  and  Here  an  excavation  had  been 
made,  circular  in  shape,  and  about  twelve 
feet  in  diameter.  This  place  had  a  more 
cheerful  aspict  than  any  thing  that  they  had 
yet  seen,  if  any  thing  can  be  called  cheerful 
in  such  a  place.  The  walls  had  been  covered 
with  stucco,  which  still  remained;  though 
down  about  a  foot  from  the  floor  it  had  crum- 
bled otf.  Over  the  walls  they  saw  pictures 
which  had  been  made  ages  before,  and  still 
kept  their  colors.  These  were  all  pictures  of 
things  as  familiar  to  thim  as  tho  streets  of 
Rome.  There  was  Adam  and  Evo  plucking 
tho  forbidden  fruit ;  Noah  and  his  ark ; 
Abraham  offenuf;  up  Isaac;  Jonah  and  his 
whale ;  and  iver  so  many  more  of  a  similar 
chyaractcr.  Of  course,  all  this  only  showed 
still  more  clearly  that  the  place  was  a  Chris- 
tian cinotaph,  and  it  was  with  something  like 
riveriuce  that  they  gazed  upon  these  pict- 
ures, made  by  tho  hands  of  saints.  Well, 
then  they  started  to  go  on,  whin  they  sudden- 
ly discovered,  yawning  before  them,  a  wide 
opening  in  the  flure,  or  pavcmint.  It  was 
fowcr  feet  wide,  and  six  long.    Beneath  all 


6 


AX  OPEN  QUESTION. 


■was  darkness.  Aloyslus  tuk  his  string  and 
lowered  his  lamp.  About  twelve  or  fifteen  feet 
helow  he  saw  a  Sure  like  the  one  where  he 
•was  standing,  and  a  passage-way  like  those 
around  him.  Ho  also  saw  slabs  with  in- 
scriptions. By  this  he  knew  that  there  were 
ranges  of  passage-ways  fille'l  with  tombs  im- 
mejitly  beneath,  no  doubt  as  Jxtinsive  as  these 
upper  ones.  The  sight  filled  him  with  schu- 
pefaction.  This  was  the  limit  of  their  second 
attimpt.  The  other  passages  leading  away 
from  what  he  calls  the  'painted  chamber,' 
were  narrow  and  uninvitin' ;  the  lower  pas- 
sage-way, however,  was  broad  and  high,  and 
gave  promise  of  leading  to  a  place  of  shupa- 
rior  importince.  By  this  time  Onofrio  was  as 
full  of  eagerness  as  Aloysius,  and  it  didn't 
need  any  persuasin  to  injuice  him  to  make  a 
further  tower  through  these  vaults  on  anoth- 
er day.  This  time  they  brought  with  thim, 
in  addition  to  their  lamps  and  string,  a  couple 
of  bits  of  ladders  that  Aloysius  had  knocked 
up  for  the  occasion. 

"  Well,  now  came  the  time  of  tlieir  thii-d 
exploration.  Tiiey  tuk  their  ladders,  and  de- 
scinded  into  the  lower  passage-waj'.  Down 
here  they  found  ivery  thing  just  as  it  had 
been  up  above.  In  one  or  two  places  they 
saw,  in  side-papsagea,  other  openings  in  the 
flure,  which  gave  ividence  of  anotlier  story 
beneath  this  again,  containing,  no  doubt,  the 
same  tombs  ranged  in  the  same  way.  Such 
an  appariently  indloss  ixtint  almost  over- 
whelmed them.  Well,  at  last,  whiu  they  had 
spun  out  nearly  all  their  string,  they  saw  be- 
fore them  an  opening,  wide  and  dark,  into 
which  their  passage-way  ran.  They  intered 
this  place. 

"  Now  listen,"  said  O'Rourke,  impressive- 
ly. "  This  place  is  described  in  the  manu- 
script of  Aloysius  in  the  most  minute  man- 
ner, just  as  if  he  was  writing  it  down  for  the 
hinifit  of  posterUy.  It  was  a  vaulted  cham- 
ber, liko  the  one  which  they  had  found  be- 
fore. The  walls  were  stuccoed  and  covered 
Avith  painted  pictures  —  tlie  dove  wilh  tlie 
olive-branch ;  the  mystic  fish,  the  '  Ichtlius,' 
the  letters  of  whose  name  are  so  mysterious- 
ly symbolical ;  and  the  portrayal  of  sacred 
scenes  drawn  from  Holy  Writ ;  all  tliese  were 
on  the  walls.  Now,  this  chamber  was  fowor 
times  bigger  than  the  other  one. 

"  You  remirabcp  that  thus  far  they  had 
found  nothing  loose  or  movable.  Wliat  may 
have  been  in  the  tombs,  of  course  they  could 


not  see.  But  here  all  was  different.  The 
very  first  glance  they  threw  around  showed 
them  a  great  heap  of  things,  piled  up  high  in 
the  far  eorroner.  Onofrio  hesitated — for  he 
was  always  superstitious  —  but  Aloysius 
bounded  forward,  and  at  once  began  to  ex- 
amine the  things. 

"  Now,  Blake,  me  boy,  by  the  powers  but 
it's  me  that  don't  know  how  to  begin  to  tell 
3'ou  tliis  that  they  found  !  AVliin  I  read  about 
this  in  the  manuscript — when  I  saw  it  there 
in  black  and  white — tare  an  ages! — but  I 
fairly  lost  mo  breath.  What  d'ye  think  it 
was,  man?  Wliat?  Wliy,  a  trisnre  incal- 
culable, piled  up  tin  feet  high  from  flnre  to 
vaulted  ceiling;  there  was  gold,  and  silver, 
and  giras,  and  golden  urruns,  and  goblits,  and 
perrils,  and  rubies,  and  imeralds ;  there  was 
jools  beyond  all  price,  and  tripods,  and  cen- 
sers, and  statuettes;  and  oh,  sure  to  glory! 
but  it's  meself  that'll  fairly  break  down  in 
the  attimpt  to  give  you  the  faintest  concip- 
tion  of  a  trisnre  so  schupindous  ;  candelabras, 
and  snuffer-trays,  and  lamps,  and  lavcrs,  and 
braziers,  and  crowns,  and  coronits,  and  brace- 
lets, and  chains — all  of  them  put  down  in 
that  manuscript,  in  black  and  white,  as  I 
said — coolly  enumerated  by  that  owld  gan- 
dher  of  an  Aloysius,  who  missed  his  chance 
thin,  as  I'll  tell  you.  But  there  they  were,  as 
I'm  tolling  ye,  and  I'd  jist  requist  ye  to  let 
yer  fancy  play  around  this  description;  call 
up  befrre  yer  mind's  eye  the  trisure  there — 
the  trisure  that  the  worruld  has  niver  seen 
the  like  of  before  nor  since,  saving  only  once, 
whin  the  gowld  of  Peru  Avas  piled  up  for 
Pizarro's  greedy  eyes  by  the  unfortunate 
Atahualpa  ;  but  no  wonder,  for  what  he  saw 
there  was  no  less  a  thing  than  the  trisure  of 
the  Ccrsars  t " 

At  this,  O'Rourke  stopped  and  looked  at 
his  companion,  Blake  by  this  time  showed 
evidence  of  the  most  intense  and  breathless 
excitement. 

"  By  the  Lord  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  O'Rourke, 
what  do  you  moan  by  all  this  ?  It  is  incredi- 
ble.    It  sounds  like  some  madman's  dream  ! " 

O'Rourke  smiled. 

"  Wait,"  said  he — "  wait  till  ye  hear  the 
whole  of  the  story,  and  then  we'll  be  able  to 
discuss  the  probabilities.  I'm  not  done  just 
yit — I'll  hurry  on.  I  can't  stand  the  thought 
of  the  glories  of  that  unparalleled  scone. 

"  Well,  Aloysius  was  already  taking  up  the 
tilings  one  by  one  in  amazement,  whin  Onofrio 


THE   CATACOMBS. 


came  up.  Onofrio  gave  a  cry  of  wonder,  and 
caught  up  several  small  statuettes,  but,  afthcr 
a  brief  examination,  lie  threw  them  back  with 
a  gesture  and  a  cry  of  abhorrence. 

"  '  Come  away ! '  says  he — '  come  away ! ' 

" '  What  do  you  mean  ?  '  says  Aloysius, 
grabbing  up  a  heap  of  perrils  and  diamoud 
jools. 

" '  They're  the  divvlc's  own  work,  sure 
enough,'  says  Onofrio,  all  of  a  trimble.  '  Sure 
he's  put  it  all  here  as  a  bait  for  our 
sowls.' 

" '  Whist  then,  Onofrio  darlint,'  says  Aloy- 
sius. '  AVhat's  the  harrum  of  whipping  off  a 
bit  of  a  diamond  or  imerald  for  San  Anto- 
nio ? ' 

" '  Oh,  sure  to  glory ! '  cries  Onofrio,  '  but 
we'll  be  lost  and  kilt  intirely,  and  we'll  niver 
get  home  again.  Down  with  thim  ! '  says  he. 
'  Fling  them  back,  Aloysius  jool,'  says  he. 
'  They're  the  work,  and  the  trap,  and  the  de- 
vice of  Satan,'  says  he,  '  an'  nothin'  '11  iver 
come  of  it  but  blue  roon  to  both  of  us.' 

" '  Sure,  an'  how  could  Satan  get  in  here 
wid  the  saint3  and  martyrs,  yeould  spalpeen  ?  ' 
says  Aloysius. 

"  At  this  Onofrio  declared  that  this  cham- 
ber had  no'  tombs,  and  was  thus  ungyarded, 
so  that  thereby  the  powers  of  Darkness  were 
able  to  inter  and  lay  their  snares — 

" '  But,'  says  Aloysius — and  oh,  but  it's  the 
clear  head  that  same  hud  on  his  shoulders — 
'  how,'  says  he,  '  would  Satan,'  says  he,  '  be 
afther  laying  his  snares  down  here  where  no 
mortal  iver  comes  ?  ' 

"  '  Sure,  and  that's  just  it,'  says  Onofrio  ; 
'  didn't  he  see  us  comin' — didn't  he  just  throw 
these  things  in  here  for  us  to  grab  at  thim  ? 
Oh,  come  back,  Aloysius  darlint ! — drop  ivery 
thing — back  to  the  protiction  of  the  saints 
and  martyrs,  and  out  of  this  ! ' 

"  Weil,  just  at  this  moment  .'lever.*''  of  the 
gowhlcn  braziers  and  tripods,  which  had  been 
loosened  on  the  pile  by  Aloysius  pulling  away 
some  of  the  gowlden  eandolabra  and  diamond 
bracelets  from  under  thim,  gave  a  slide,  and 
fell  with  a  great  clatter  to  the  flure.  At  this 
Onofrio  gave  a  yell,  dropped  his  lamp,  and 
ran,  Aloysius  was  for  the  moment  frightened 
almost  as  much,  and  followed  Onofrio,  both 
of  thim  with  not  the  least  doubt  in  life  but 
that  the  Owld  Boy  was  after  thim.  So  they 
ran,  an'  they  didn't  stop  till  they  reached  the 
ladder,  when  they  scrambled  xip,  and  pulled 
the  ladder  up  after       n.    They  now  felt  safe, 


and  waited  here  awhile  to  take  breath.  Now, 
mind  you,  Aloysius  had  been  frightened,  but 
there  was  an  imirald  bracelet  that  he'd  slipped 
on  his  arrum,  and  a  diamond  ring  that  he'd 
stuck  on  his  finger,  and  these  two  remained 
on  as  he  ran,  and  when  he  felt  himself  safe 
he  didn't  feel  inclined  to  throw  thim  away. 
But  he  could  not  keep  thim  concealed  from 
Onofrio,  who  detected  thim  by  the  flash  of  the 
gims  that  outshone  the  lamp  and  dazzled  him. 
Upon  this  he  set  up  a  great  outcry  that  they 
were  lost,  and  would  niver  see  the  wurruld 
again,  and  implored  Aloysius  to  tear  the  Sa- 
tanic traps  off,  and  throw  them  behind  him. 
But  Aloysius  refused. 

" '  Whist,'  says  he,  '  do  ye  know  where  ye 
a.  e  ?  '  says  he.  '  Arn't  these  the  sainta  and 
niartjTS  ?  Would  they  allow  any  blackgyard 
imp  to  show  as  much  as  the  tip  of  his  tail  ? 
Not  they.  Niver.'  But  Onofrio  wouldn't  be 
consoled  at  all,  at  all,  and  all  the  way  back 
wint  on  lamenting  that  one  or  the  other  would 
have  to  pay  dear  for  stealing  Satan's  jools. 
So  at  last  they  got  back  safe  into  the  vaults 
of  the  monastery,  and  thin — partly  to  console 
Onofrio,  and  partly  out  of  a  ginirous  filial  siu- 
limint  and  loyal  regyard  to  San  Antonio  and 
his  monastery — Aloysius  towld  Onofrio  that  it 
would  be  best  to  let  the  abbot  know ;  and 
this  consoled  Onofrio,  for  he  saw  that  he 
could  get  the  abbot's  help  against  Satan. 
And  so  the  two  of  thim,  without  any  more  de- 
lay, walked  off  and  towld  the  abbot  the  whole 
story. 

"  Anil  oh,  but  wasn't  the  abbot  the  happy 
man  that  day !  lie  quistoned  thim  over  and 
over.  He  bound  thim  by  a  solemn  promise 
niver  to  breathe  a  word  of  it  to  another  sowL 
He  thin  infarrumed  thim  that  he  would  visit 
the  place  himsilf,  and  told  thim  that  they  both 
would  have  to  go  with  him.  Well,  Aloysius 
was  glad  enough,  and  poor  Onofrio  was  badly 
scared  ;  but  the  abbot,  the  dear  man,  had  his 
own  projicts,  and  wasn't  going  to  lose  the 
chance  of  such  a  trisuro  as  this,  ispicially 
whin,  as  ye  may  say,  it  might  be  called  San 
Antonio's  own  gold  and  jools. 

" '  Sure  ♦"  glory ! '  cried  the  holy  abbot  in 
rapture  ;  '  don't  I  know  all  about  it  ?  There's 
been  a  tradition  here  for  ages.  It's  the  tria- 
ure  of  the  Cicsars.  Whin  Alaric  came  before 
Rome,  the  sinit  and  people  of  Rome  tried  to 
save  something,  so  they  imptied  the  imperial 
palace — the  Aiirea  Domua  Nerotiia — me  boys, 
of  all  its  trisures — its  gold,  its  giras,  its  jools, 


8 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


1 
4 


its  kyarbunclcs,  its  imiralds,  and  pricvous 
Btonea — and  where  in  the  wide  wurruld  they 
put  thim  nobody  ivcr  knew  till  this  day.  Ala- 
ric  was  fairly  heart-broke  with  disappointment. 
They  were  niver  tuk  up,  for  Rome  was  no 
longer  safe.  Genserio  came  ravagin',  and 
missed  thim.  They  escaped  the  grasp  of  Odo- 
acer,  of  Theodoric,  of  Vidges,  of  Totila,  and 
of  Bclisarius ;  of  the  Normans,  of  the  robber 
barons,  of  Rienzi,  and  of  the  Constable  Bour- 
bon ;  and  have  been  kept  till  this  day,  through 
the  ispicial  protiction  and  gyardianship  of 
holy  Anthony — may  glory  be  with  him ! — and 
now  he's  handin'  it  over  to  us,  for  the  honor 
and  glory  of  his  ii.jonastery.  Look  at  this,' 
Bays  he,  whippin'  on  his  own  arrum  the  brace- 
let that  Aloysius  had  found,  and  putting  the 
diamond  ring  on  his  own  finger,  and  howlding 
arrum  and  hand  up  to  the  light.  '  Tare  an 
ages  !  boys,  but  did  ye  iver  see  any  gims  like 
thim  ? ' 

"  So  the  holy  abbot  wint  off,  iscorted  by 
the  two  monks  ;  and  ye  may  be  sure  they  kept 
that  same  ixpedition  a  saycret  from  all  the 
rest  of  the  monks.  It  was  night  whin  they 
■wint  down — as  the  manuscript  says.  The 
prisince  of  the  blissid  abbot  gave  the  two 
boys  a  since  of  protiction,  and  even  Onofrio 
seemed  to  have  lost  his  fears.  lie  grew  bold- 
er, and  peered  curiously  into  those  darker 
side-passages  which  crossed  the  main  path- 
way. The  clew  lay  along  the  flure  all  the 
way,  80  that  there  was  no  trouble.  Well, 
they  wint  on  an'  reached  the  painted  cham- 
ber, and  found  the  ladders  lying  where  they 
had  left  thim.  They  wint  down.  Each  one 
had  his  own  lamp.  They  walked  on  for  about 
fifty  paces ;  alriddy  Aloysius  was  reaching  for- 
ward his  hand  to  show  the  holy  abbot  how 
near  the  trisure-room  was,  whin  suddenly 
there  was  a  noise — '  a  noise,'  says  the  manu- 
script, '  like  rushing  footstips.' 

"At  that  moment  Onofrio  gave  a  terrible 
cry.  Again,  as  before,  the  lamp  fell  from  his 
hands,  and  was  dashed  to  pieces.  With  j-ell 
afther  yell,  and  shriek  afthcr  shriek,  he  darted 
back,  and  bounded  along  the  passage-ways. 
The  abbot  and  Aloysius  heard  the  noise,  too ; 
but  of  itself,  says  the  manuscript,  that  noise 
might  not  have  driven  tlieu.  .>.vay,  for  the 
holy  abbot  was  riddy  with  no  ind  of  exorcisms 
and  spells  to  lay  the  biggest  imp  that  might 
appear.  But  the  yells,  and  the  sudden  flight 
of  Onofrio,  filled  thim  with  uncontrollable 
horror.    The  abbot,  in  an  instant,  lost  all  his 


prisince  of  mind.  He  turned  and  ran  back  at 
the  top  of  his  speed.  Aloysius  followed,  and 
could  scarcely  keep  up  with  him.  Aloysius 
declares  that,  as  ho  ran,  ho  still  heard  the 
sound  of  rushing  footsteps  behind  him,  and 
was  filled  with  the  darkest  fear.  '■Ingens  ter- 
ror,^ he  says, '  implehat  nos;  membra  rigchant  ; 
corsiupebat;  horror  ineffahilis  undiqw  circitm- 
stabat ;  et  a  tergo  vidcbantur  quas'  ealervae  hor- 
ribilcs  ex  abi/smo,  surgeutes,  scquentes  afque  fit- 
gantcs.  Noa  ita  inter  morluos,  semimortut ; 
inter  fugantes  fugientes  erepii  simiua  nescio  quo- 
modo  ex  illo  abysmo ;  et  ad  cryptnm  monasteri 
vix  semianimi  tandem  aduenimna.* 

"Well,"  continued  O'Rourke,  after  paus- 
ing, perhaps  to  take  breath  after  the  Latin 
which  he  had  quoted  from  the  old  manuscript, 
"  whin  they  got  to  the  vaults  of  the  monastery, 
they  recovered  from  their  terror,  but  only  to 
ixperience  a  new  alarrum.  For  there,  on 
looking  around,  they  could  see  nothing  of 
Onofrio.  They  searched  all  through  the 
vaults.  He  was  not  there.  They  had  locked 
the  monastery  door,  which  led  into  the  vaults, 
on  the  inside,  and  it  had  not  been  opened. 
If  he  was  not  in  the  vaults,  he  must  yit  be  in 
that  horrible  place  from  which  they  had  fled. 
But  they  had  seen  nothing  of  him  since  his 
first  flight.  They  had  not  overtaken  him. 
The  abbot  had  a  vague  reinimbrance  of  a  fig- 
ure before  him  vanishing  in  the  gloom  of  the 
passage-way,  but  no  more. 

"  They  waited  for  a  long  time,  but  Onofrio 
did  not  make  his  appearance.  Thin  they 
shouted  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  but  the 
sounds  died  away  down  the  long,  vaulted  pas- 
sago  without  bringing  any  risponse  ixcipt 
what  the  manuscript  vaguely  and  mysterious- 
ly calls  a  '  concentu^  quidam  stiaurrorum  levi- 
urn,  vt  vidcbatur,  aonorumque  obscurorum,  qua: 
commixta  reverbcrationibua  trialibua  ac  segni- 
bus,  volvebanl  qnaai  auapiria  de  prof undia.\  .  . 

"At  last  their  anxiety  about  their  com- 
panion proved  stronger  thin  the  horrors  of 
shuperstition,  and  they  vintured  back,  grow- 
ing bowlder  as  they  wint,  and  they  wint  as  far 
as  the  fust  passage-way.  Thin  they  called 
and  lialloed.  But  no  risponse  came.  Thin 
they  wint  as  far  as  the  painted  chamber,  the 
holy  abbot  howlding  before  him  the  sacred 
symbol  of  the  cross,  and  muttering  prayers, 
while  Aloysius  did  the  shouting.  And  the 
manuscript  says  that  they  remained  there  for 
hours.  The  opening  into  the  regions  below 
lay  within  sight,  but  thoy  didn't  dare  so  much 


« 


TUB  TREASURE  OF  TUE   C.ESAR.S. 


9 


Q  back  at 

wed,  and 

Aloysiua 

leard  the 

him,  and 

nffens  ter- 

rigehant ; 

He  ciracm- 

rvae  hor- 

alque  fu- 

nimortui ; 

niKio  quo- 

monasteri 


as  to  tliiuk  of  going  down  tliere  again.  They 
saw  the  prqjiction  of  the  ladder  above  the 
opening,  but  dared  not  go  nearer.  At  last  it 
beeame  Ividint  that  there  was  no  further  hope 
just  thin.  They  wint  up  and  found  it  daylight 
above-ground.  The  abbot  was  wild  with  anx- 
iety, lie  gathered  all  the  monks,  got  sthrings, 
and  crosses,  and  torches,  and  down  again  he 
wint  with  thim.  This  time,  embowldined  by 
the  prisinco  of  numbers,  he  dcscinded  the 
ladder  and  stud  at  the  fut.  He  didn't  dare, 
though,  to  vinturc  any  further.  lie  didn't  tell 
the  monks  any  thing  except  that  Brother 
Onofrio  was  lost.  Nothing  was  said  about 
tlie  triaure.  The  most  awful  warrunings  were 
held  out  to  the  monks  against  wandering  off. 
Small  need  was  there  for  warruning  thim, 
however,  for  thoy  were  all  half  dead  with  fear. 
There  they  stud  and  sang  chants.  They  did 
this  three  days  running.  The  monk  Aloysius 
distinctly  affirrums  that  nothing  kipt  away 
the  minacing  demons  but  the  sacred  chants 
and  the  prayers  of  the  holy  abbot. 

"  Well,  nothing  was  ever  heard  of  Onofrio. 
After  three  days  thoy  gave  up.  The  abbot 
had  the  opening  walled  up,  and  thin,  over- 
whillumed  by  grief,  he  tuk  to  his  bed.  The 
damp  of  the  vaults  had  also  affected  his  lungs, 
lie  died  iu  about  sivin  weeks.  He  left  direc- 
tions for  perpetual  masses  to  be  said  for  the 
repose  of  the  sowl  of  Brother  Onofrio.  As  for 
A.loysius,  his  grief  and  rcmorrus  were  deep 
and  permanint.  He  nivcr  ceased  to  reproach 
hirasilf  with  being  the  cause  of  the  terrible 
fate  of  poor  Onofrio.  He  niver  attimpted  to 
get  the  trisure  wliich  he  now  and  '■■••cr  after- 
worrac  it  ferrumly  believed  to  be  all  that 
Onofrio  hud  said.  Still  there  was  the  secret 
on  his  sowl,  and  so  he  wrote  this  story  of  his, 
and  put  his  manupcript  in  the  library  of  the 
monastery.    And  tliere  ye  have  it." 

With  these  words  Dr.  O'Rourko  concluded 
his  story,  and,  turning  toward  the  table,  re- 
freshed himself  with  another  glass  of  wine. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  TREASURE  OF  THE  CiESARS. 

Dr.  O'Rourke  swallowed  a  glass  of  wine, 
and  then  proceeded  to  light  a  cigar  with  the 
air  of  one  who  felt  that  he  had  done  enough, 
and  was  desirous  of  resting  from  his  labors, 
and  of  leaving  to  his  companion  the  task  of 
making  further  remarks.    So  ho  lighted  liis 


cigar,  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  turned 
his  eyes  toward  the  ceiling. 

Basil  Blake,  for  his  part,  had  been  a  lis- 
tener  of  the  most  attentive  kind,  and  O'Rourko 
could  not  have  wished  for  any  more  absorbed, 
or  earnest,  or  thougiitful  hearer.  Now  that 
the  story  was  ended,  he  remained  in  tho 
same  position,  and,  like  our  first  parents  with 
the  affable  archangel,  "  still  stood  attentive, 
still  stood  fixed  to  hear." 

At  length  he  roused  himself  from  his  ab- 
straction, and,  drawing  a  long  breath,  looked 
fixedly  at  O'Rourke. 

"Well,  old  chap,"  said  he,  "all  that  I 
can  say  is  that,  for  a  story,  this  is  the  most 
extraordinary  that  1  have  ever  actually  lis- 
tened to,  and,  in  order  to  find  a  parallel,  I 
have  to  refer  to  the  story-books  of  my  boy- 
hood— the  '  Arabian  Nights,'  '  Tales  from  the 
German,'  and  '  Fairy  Lore.'  I  see  you  are  ex- 
pecting mo  to  give  au  opinion  about  this,  but 
it  is  difficult  to  do  so  ;  for,  in  the  first  place, 
I  don't  know  whether  I'm  to  regard  it  as 
mere  fiction  or  actual  fact." 

O'Rourke  laid  down  his  cigar  upon  tho 
table. 

"  That's  the  very  remark  I  expected  you 
to  make,  so  it  is,"  said  he,  "  and  so,  sure 
enough,  there  rises  before  us  at  the  outsit  tho 
great  question  of  the  authenticity  of  the  manu- 
script and  the  credibility  of  the  narrative. 
You  see,  thin,  that  this  questio..  is  twofold, 
and  should  be  considered  as  such." 

Blake  nodded. 

"  Now,  first,"  said  O'Rourke,  "  as  to  the 
authenticity  of  the  manuscript — there  can  bo 
no  doubt  about  that  whalivor.  Me  own 
cousin,  poor  Malachi,  a  dying  man,  gave  it  to 
me  witii  his  dying  hands.  He  was  a  monk  in 
tho  monastery  of  San  Antonio,  and  in  the  li- 
brary of  that  same  he  found  the  manuscript, 
written,  as  the  date  inforrums  us,  cinturies 
ago.  So,  you  see,  the  ginealogy  is  straight 
and  certain.  Howandiver,  this  is  only  ixter- 
nal  ividince.  What  about  the  internal  ivi- 
dince  ?  The  handwriting  of  itself  is  suffi- 
cient proof  that  it  was  written  whin  it  says, 
together  with  the  faded  ink,  the  peculiar  vel- 
lum, and  theginiral  aspiut.  Internal  ividince 
of  a  still  stronger  kind  may  be  found  in  the 
sintimints,  the  exprissions,  and  the  jaynius 
of  the  writer :  but  these  all  inter  into  the  dis- 
cussion under  the  second  head — namely,  tho 
honesty,  the  cridibility,  the  veracity,  of  tho 
author. 


.11 


! 


i  ! 


10 


AN  OPExV  QUESTION. 


"Now,  with  rifirince  to  this,  I  will  make 
a  few  observations : 

"  First,  the  writer  could  have  had  no  mo- 
tive whativir  in  writing  down  any  thing  but 
what  he  believed  to  be  true.  Bemimbcr,  he 
epeaks  as  an  eye-witness — nay,  more,  an 
actor  in  the  ivints  which  he  narrates.  To  a 
man  in  his  position  and  calling,  a  work  of 
fiction  would  have  been  impossible.  He  was 
not  a  sinsation  novelist.  He  was  a  man  of 
the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  cinturies — a 
monk,  a  recluse,  a  man  near  his  ind.  He  had 
no  aujience;  no  reading  public;  he  wrote  his 
worruk,  and  consigned  it  to  the  oblivion  of 
the  library.  Under  such  circumstances,  no 
man  could  write  any  thing  but  what  he  be- 
lieved true. 

"  But,  secondly,  there  are  other  things 
which  tiud  to  sustain  his  intire  cridibility. 
These  are  the  circumstances  raintioncd  in  the 
book,  the  feelings,  the  words,  and  the  deeds 
of  the  actors.  First  among  these  things  de- 
scribed is  the  place  itself,  now  famous  as  the 
Roman  Catacombs.  The  mintion  of  this 
place  is  enough  for  me.  In  the  time  when 
Aloysius  lived,  the  Catacombs  were  unknown. 
They  had  been  forgotten  for  ages.  Their  very 
ixistince  was  not  suspicted.  The  labors 
and  explorations  of  Bosio,  Arringhi,  and  oth- 
ers, had  not  yet  taken  place.  Aloysius  thus 
stands  alone  among  his  contimporaries  in  this 
knowledge  of  the  ixistince  and  the  appear- 
ance of  the  Catacombs.  Ho  saw  them  as 
they  appeared  to  Bosio,  with  the  slabs  un- 
touched, the  pictures  fresh-colored,  the  ipi- 
taphs  undeciphered,  and,  I  may  add,  the 
graves  unrifled. 

"  Xow,  you  must  not  only  appreciate  the 
full  force  of  this  most  significant  fact,  but 
you  must  also  boar  in  mind  thut  all  the  de- 
scriptions of  Aloysius  are  as  vivU  and  as  ac- 
curate as  possible.  I  have  been  in  those 
Catacombs  which  are  now  open  to  visitors, 
and  can  answer  for  the  truth  of  the  manu- 
script. There  arc  the  passages,  the  tiers  of 
graves,  the  chambers,  tiio  wiiUs  covered  with 
Btucco,  with  pictures  of  Scripture  scenes,  the 
schupindous  multichude  of  Cliristian  deau. 
The  arrangement  of  the  ixcavations  in  dilfer- 
cnt  stories,  shuperior,  and  mcjium,  and  in- 
ferior ;  the  openings  in  tiie  paths,  the  peep 
down  into  the  abyss  of  darkness  beneath — 
all  these  are  wonderfully  accurate,  and  are  the 
description  of  an  cye-witniss. 

"  Again,  there  are  those  vivid  descriptions 


of  human  life  and  i motion;  of  exultation^ 
curiosity,  triumph,  sudden  fright,  deep  hor- 
ror, succeeded  by  grief  and  despair.  Recall 
the  horror  of  Onofrio,  the  anguish  of  the  ab« 
bot.  I  wish  ye  could  only  read  that  crabbed 
manuscript  for  ycrself,  so  as  to  see  with  what 
vivid  simplicity  these  terrible  things  are  told. 

"  There's  not  the  least  doubt  in  life,  thin, 
that  at  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  cin- 
tury,  or  the  ind  of  the  sixteenth,  the  man  that 
wrote  this  was  down  in  the  Catacombs,  and 
that  his  companion  perished  there,  as  he  nar- 
rates.  There's  not  the  least  doubt  in  life  that 
those  multichudinous  minute  details  are  all 
corrict,  and  actually  happened  as  set  forth. 

"  Still  one  fact  remains,  and  this  is,  after 
all,  the  prayiminint  fact  for  us  now.  It  is 
the  assertion  of  the  discovery  of  a  Great 
Trisure.  With  regyard  to  this,  we  ask  our- 
selves two  questions : 

"  First — Is  it  possible  ?  > 

"  Secondly — Is  it  probable  ? 

"  Now,  the  question  of  its  possibility  is 
easily  disposed  of.  Of  course,  it's  possible, 
and  more  unlikely  things  than  that  have 
taken  place.  So  the  other  question  remains 
— is  it  probable  ? 

"  Now  let  us  turrun  our  attintion  to  this 
for  a  few  momints:' 

"  When  you  think  of  it,  you  must  sec  that 
nothing  is  more  probable  than  that,  in  the 
courso  of  ages,  in  the  history  of  a  great  city 
like  ancient  Rome,  trisure  has  been  concealed 
to  a  vast  ixtint.  Think  of  the  numerous 
sieges  and  sacks  that  have  taken  place  since 
the  days  of  Alaric  the  Gotii.  Tlie  sacks  of 
Rome  began  with  Alaric.  The  spell  of  Ro- 
man security  was  broken  whin  the  Goths  min- 
aced  the  .\ytrrrnn:il  City.  In  the  short  space 
that  was  lel'l  between  his  arrival  and  the  cap- 
ture of  the  city  an  initninsc  amount  must 
have  been  hastily  concealed.  At  that  time 
the  ixistince  of  the  Catacombs  was  known. 
It  had,  at  what  miglit  be  terrumcd  a  com- 
paratively recent  period,  been  a  hiding-place 
for  persecuted  Christians.  It  was  thin  a  sa- 
cred place,  aa  St.  Jerome  says,  and  was  be- 
lieved to  bo  hallowed  by  the  bones  of  the 
martyrs.  'Deed,  St.  Jerome  himself  vint 
down  to  inspict  their  graves,  and  tells  his 
emotions. 

"  There  is  no  doubt,  thin,  I  may  rezhume, 
that  an  incalculable  amount  of  trisure  must 
have  been  hid  away  in  Rome  juring  cinturicfl 
of  warfare  and  chunmlt ;  and  it  is  equally  ivl- 


THE  TREASURE  OF  THE   CvESARS. 


11 


:lil.S 


ixultation, 

deep  hor- 

Recall 

of  the  ab- 

t  crabbed 

with  what 

3  are  told. 

life,  thin, 

tcenth  cin- 

e  man  that 

onibs",  and 

as  he  nar- 

in  life  that 

are  all 

t  forth. 

s  is,  after 

now.     It  is 

)f  a  Great 

e  ask  our- 


jssibility  is 

'a  possible, 

that  have 

ion  remains 

tion  to  this 

lust  sec  that 
that,  in  the 

a  great  city 
ni  concealed 
e  numerous 

place  since 
:ie  sacks  of 
ipell  of  Ro- 
!  Goths  min- 

short  space 
ind  the  cap. 
nount  must 
>t  that  time 
ivas  known, 
ned  a  com- 
liidinfr-placo 
IS  tliin  a  srt- 
[ind  was  be- 
ones  of  the 
imsclf  flint 
nd  tells  his 

ay  rezhume, 

-risurc  must 

ng  cinturica 

equally  ivi- 


dint  that  at  certain  times  the  Catacombs  must 
have  been  foremost  in  the  thoughts  of  those 
who  wished  to  '  ido  money — as  prayiminint- 
ly,  if  not  exclusively,  the  best  place  for  such 
concealment.  The  quistion,  therefore,  that 
now  comes  forth  is,  which,  out  of  all  the  ein- 
turies  in  the  life  of  the  Ayterrunal  City,  is  the 
most  likely  one  in  which  a  great  tri.sure  might 
be  hid  in  the  Catacombs  ? 

"  In  order  to  answer  this,  let  us  cast  our 
eyes  over  tlic  sackings  of  Rome.  The  great 
sack  by  the  Constable  Bourbon  was  ividintly 
not  the  time  that'll  slioot  our  purposes,  for 
the  reason  that  the  ixistince  of  the  Catacombs 
was  not  even  suspicted.  The  same  thing  may 
be  said  of  the  variouti  sieges  or  sackings  that 
occurred  juring  the  middle  ages — undher  the 
Uohenstaiifcn  imperors,  whither  Rome  was 
minaced  by  a  GhibcUine  arruniy,  or  captured 
and  plundered  by  the  Xorramar.s.  So,  ye  see, 
we've  got  to  go  back  still  furtiier  till  we  come 
to  the  days  of  Belisarius,  and  the  warrafare 
of  that  imifiint  gineral  against  the  Goth^.  One 
answer  meets  us  here,  and  that  is,  that  in  his 
days  there  was  scarcely  enough  trisurc  in 
Rome  to  be  worth  concealmint.  We  know 
that  fact  by  the  state  o^  Rome  at  the  accission 
of  Grigoiy  the  Great,  at  the  ind  of  that  same 
cintury.  Whin  that  pope  ascindcd  the  chair 
of  Saint  Peter — glory  to  his  name  ! — he  found 
Rome  a  city  of  paupers.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
him,  Rome  would  not  h.ave  been  in  ixistince 
now.  lie  was  a  second  Romulus — he  saved 
Rome  —  ho  created  it  anew.  But,  by  tliis 
simple  fact,  we  sec  that  in  ids  days  there  was 
no  trisure  to  conceal. 

"  It  is  ividint,  therefore,  that  we  are  pushed 
further  back. 

"  Now,  the  conditions  that  we  have  seen 
both  ixist  side  by  side  in  the  greatest  degree 
at  the  time  of  the  first  sack  of  Rome  by  Ala- 
rie.  What  do  we  find  then  ?  AVilth  incalcu- 
lablc  ;  the  accumulated  trisures  of  the  ages  ; 
the  stored-up  plunder  of  cinturies — all  piled 
up  in  Rome  I  Xot  yet  had  any  hand  of  vio- 
lince  been  laid  upon  the  iraparial  possissions. 
True  it  is  that  the  Impcror  Constantino  liad 
taken  away  some  trisures  of  art — some  rilics, 
perhaps,  and  coined  money,  togitlier  with 
what  things  ho  could  conveniently  appropri- 
ate ;  but  such  saquistratious  ,as  tliese  were 
but  a  flea-bite,  and  made  no  perceptible  dimi- 
nution in  the  hoarded  wilth  of  the  cinturicL, 
of  domination  and  shupriraaey.  It  excited  no 
nlarrum.       Rome  stood   untroubled.       Time 


rowled  on.  The  gowld,  and  the  giras,  and 
tlio  jools,  and  the  trisures  of  the  ancient  pa- 
gan timples  were  perhaps  transferred  to  Chris- 
tian idiflces  ;  but  they  still  remained  in  Rome. 
No  one  thought  as  yit  of  concealmint — at 
least,  not  on  any  grand  scale.  In  those  days 
the  House  of  Nero  was  \it  the  Golden — the 
Palatine  stood  up  one  of  the  wondhers  of  the 
wurruld. 

"  Now  at  this  time — imagine  the  approach 
of  Alaric — what  would  be  the  fust  act  of  the 
Romans  ?  those  let  us  say  who  were  gyarding 
the  mighty  trisures  of  the  imparial  palace  ? 
Most  ividintly  their  fust  impulse  would  be  to 
hurry  away  every  movable  thing  of  value  into 
a  place  of  concealmint.  And  into  what  place 
of  concealmint  ?  In  tliat  age  there  would  be 
nicissarily  but  one  place  thought  of — the  Cat- 
acombs. There  their  Christian  fathers  had 
hid  from  a  mightier  than  Alaric,  in  the  days 
whin  a  Roman  imperer  was  at  the  shuprame 
zayniti)  of  his  power;  there,  in  that  same 
place,  it  would  be  easy  to  hide  min  or  trisure 
from  the  grasp  of  a  barbaric  raid. 

"Now  I  contind,"  continued  O'Rourke  in 
a  cahner  tone — "  I  contind  tliat  all  this  is  imi- 
nintly  probable,  and,  more  than  this,  I  con- 
tind that  it  is  also  probable  that  it  may  be 
there  yit ;  but  we'll  sec  about  that  prisintly. 
I  may  mintiou  one  other  theory  that  has  sug- 
gisted  it.silf  to  my  mind,  and  that  is,  that  the 
pagan  priests  may  have  concealed  their  tiraile 
trisures  from  the  Christians  some  time  between 
the  reigns  of  Constantine  and  Theodosius. 
7'his  I  thouglit  of  for  tlie  reason  that  Aloysius 
says  so  much  about  tripods,  statuettes,  cen- 
sers, braziers,  and  so  forth.  But  the  answer 
to  this,  and  the  cbjiction,  is  this,  that  pagan 
priests,  even  allowing  that  they  might  have 
concealed  their  timple  trisures  out  of  dread 
of  aggrissive  Christians,  would  niver  have 
vintured  into  a  place  like  the  Catacombs — a. 
place  in  its  origin,  its  use,  its  associations, 
prayiiniuintly  Christian.  To  do  so  would 
have  been  to  vinture  into  inivitible  discovery 
and  capture.  At  the  same  time,"  continued 
O'Rourke,  elevating  his  eyebrows  and  giving 
a  thoughtful  glance  at  his  cigar,  now  utterly 
extinguished — "  at  the  same  time  this  opins 
before  us  an  intiresting  field  of  inquiry,  and 
much  may  be  said  on  both  sides. 

"  As  for  AloysiuB,"  continued  O'Rourke, 
"  it  is  ividint  from  the  tone  of  his  writing  that 
ho  considered  the  trisure  as  altogithcr  pagan, 
and  therefore  Satanic.     Onofrio  seems  to  have 


32 


AX   OPKN   QUESTIOX. 


I  I 


ricoguizcJ  tlieir  pagan  cliaractcrs  at  a  glance, 
lie  flung  down  with  horror  the  statuette,  and 
looked  with  equal  horror  on  the  jools  tluit 
Aloysius  had  talicn.  Both  of  those  min  were 
shvperstitious  ;  it  was  of  course  the  charac- 
teristic of  their  age.  Even  afthcr  the  lapse 
of  twinty  years  Aloysius  still  thinks  the  noises 
which  ho  heard  Satanic ;  and  it  nircr  seems 
to  have  intcrcd  the  dear  man's  head  tliat  tlic 
rattle  among  the  gowld  and  silver  vessels  may 
have  been  the  result  of  the  action  of  the  or- 
dinary laws  of  gravitation ;  while  ihosu  ter- 
rible sounds — '  as  of  rushing  fooislij)a  ' — of 
which  ho  speaks,  he  seems  incapable,  from 
his  nature  and  from  his  ago,  of  attributing  to 
such  humble  and  commonplace  agencies  as — 
rats,  or  bats,  or  both.  Rats — or  bats — those 
were  the  imps,  the  demons  of  the  poor  monk's 
fancy — that  drove  poor  Onofrio  to  a  hijeous 
death  in  the  interminable  passages,  the  end- 
less labyrinths,  and  the  impinitrible  gloom  of 
the  Catacombs. 

"  One  more  thing  I  may  say  which  has 
just  occurred  to  me.  Ye  don't  know  IJonic, 
and  so  ye  can't  understand  the  position  of  the 
monastery  of  San  Antonio.  Well,  ye  can  un- 
derstand me  whin  I  say  that  it  is  situated  on 
a  street  that  begins  not  far  from  the  Corso, 
and  that  the  Palatine  Hill  is  not  an  ixtrava- 
gant  distance  off.  Now,  it  is  quite  within  the 
bounds  of  possibility  that  the  subterranean 
passage  led  in  that  direction  ;  and  I've  made 
maps  according  to  my  own  fancy,  which  shows 
how  those  two  explorers  may  have  wandered 
along  till  they  were  standing  beneath  the 
Palatine.  Kow,  on  that  Palatine  stood  the 
Golden  Ilouse  of  Nero — the  imparial  palace — 
now  a  heap  of  ruins.  But  that  palace  was 
distinguished  for  the  vast  depth  of  its  founda- 
tions, and  the  imminse  ixtint  of  vaults  be- 
neath. There  are  some  archayologists  who 
have  suggisted  that  there  were  actual  open- 
ings or  communications  with  the  Catacombs 
themselves — 

"If  80,  how  easy  it  was  for  the  gyarjians 
of  the  imparial  trisurcs  to  carry  tliera  all 
down  below !  It  was  merely  going  down- 
stairs. This  chamber,  thin,  may  have  been 
immcjiately  beneath  the  imparial  vaults — the 
cellars  or  dungeons  of  the  palace — and  thus 
the  chamber  upon  which  Aloysius  and  Onofrio 
Btumbled  would  bo  the  very  chamber  where 
once  was  concealed  the  trisure  of  the  C.Tsars. 
Moreover,  if  it  once  was  concealed  there,  it 
is  easy  to  account  for  the  fact  of  its  remain- 


ing there.  The  terror  of  Gothic  arrums  ;  the 
names  of  Alaric,  Atlila,  Genserie ;  the  chu- 
nuilchuousassimblages  outside  and  inside  the 
city;  the  puppit  impirors  put  up  and  over- 
throuu  by  barbarian  soldiers — all  these  things 
woulil  have  injuiced  the  gyarjians  of  the  im- 
parial trisure  to  suffer  it  to  be  there  unre- 
moved.  And  thin  ginnrations  would  pass ; 
and  the  gyarjians  would  die  out ;  and  tho 
secret,  transmitted  fr^m  father  to  son,  would 
at  last  be  lost.  The  gyarjians,  or  their  de- 
scindints,  would  be  driven  away  from  the  pal- 
ace ;  their  places  would  be  occupied  by  Gothio 
servitors ;  the  palace  itself  would  go  to  de- 
cay, the  vaults  fall  in ;  the  subterranean  pas- 
sages would  sink  in  ruin ;  and  so,  at  last, 
even  if  tho  secret  was  known,  tho  path  that 
led  to  the  trisuro-chamber  would  be  uo  longer 
discoverable." 

Dr.  O'Rourke  had  spoken  rapidly  and 
vehemently,  and  in  the  tone,  not  merely  of 
one  who  believed  all  that  be  was  saying,  but 
of  one  who  was  a  positive  enthusiast  in  that 
belief.  This  enthusiasm,  more  than  even  tho 
arguments  themselves,  produced  a  strong  ef- 
fect upon  Blake,  in  spite  of  tho  utter  incre- 
dulity which  he  had  felt  at  first;  and  he  now 
found  himself  at  length  swept  onward,  by 
O'Rourkc's  vehemence  and  enthusiasm,  to 
the  conclusion  that,  after  all,  the  probabilities 
in  favor  of  the  truth  of  this  wild  idea  were  of 
a  highly-respectable  character." 

"  You  have  said  nothing  about  your  cousin 
— Malachi." 

"  No,"  said  O'Rourke.  "  I  am  not  quite 
through  yet ;  1  am  coming  to  him.  I  confess 
that,  without  poor  Malachi's  own  story,  I 
vroukl  not  have  the  least  idea  in  life  that 
there  was  any  prospect  of  doing  any  thing 
now — in  short,  I  would  have  regyarded  the 
story  of  Aloysius  as  a  species  of  modified 
fiction.  But  me  cousin  Walachi  had  his  own 
story  to  tell,  which,  though  not  conclusive,  is 
still  important  enough  to  make  the  story  of 
Aloysius  seem  like  a  living  fact. 

"  It  seems,  thin,  tliat  poor  Malachi,  as  I 
said,  stumbled  upon  this  miinuscript,  and  read 
it  through.  It  projuieed  such  an  iffict  upon 
him  that  he  could  not  have  any  rist  until  ho 
had  tested  tho  truth  of  it  to  some  ixtint, 
howiver  slight.  So,  what  did  he  do  but  ho 
determined  to  make  a  slight  exploration  on 
his  own  hook !  He  was  afraid,  though,  to 
take  any  companion,  for  fear  that  ho  would 
meet  with  the  fate  of  poor  Onofrio. 


A  STROKE   FOR  FORTUNE. 


13 


t  your  cousin 


•'Well,  first  of  uU,  he  went  down  Into  the 
very  same  vaults  wlierc  Aloysius  and  his 
frind  had  gone ;  and  tlierc,  suro  enough,  lie 
found  the  very  opening  niintioned  in  the 
manuscript,  wliich  opening  was  thin  just  as 
it  had  been  walled  up  alter  the  search  for 
Onofrio  had  indcd.  So  poor  llalachi  took  a 
crowbar,  and  did  as  Aloysius  had  done  bo- 
fore  him.  He  knocked  down  the  wall  with- 
out difficulty,  and  there,  sure  enough,  he  saw 
the  passage-way  an<i  the  tiers  of  tombs. 

"  He  didn't  go  far  that  day,  but  waited 
for  a  time.  The  next  time  he  brought  down 
a  ball  of  twine  and  some  lanterns ;  and,  ar- 
ruracd  with  these,  lie  wiiit  in,  and  wint  along, 
onrowling  the  twine  for  a  clew. 

"  Well,  all  was  as  the  manuscript  Siiid. 
He  came  to  the  iirst  crossing,  and  wint  on 
beyond  this. 

"He  says  ho  niver  felt  comfortable  there. 
He  always  felt  as  if  the  ghost  of  poor  Onofrio 
was  watching  him ;  but  poor  JIalachi  was  a 
very  risoluto  boy,  and  he  kipt  at  it.  He  went 
in  several  times,  and  at  last  vinturc<l  as  far 
as  the  painted  chamber. 

"  Beyond  ihis  he  saw  the  opening  in  the 
flare.  He  looked  down,  and  saw  all  the  dark- 
ness beneath.     He  never  wint  any  farther. 

"  There  were  two  reai^ons  for  this :  First, 
ho  hadn't  the  nerve  to  do  it;  he  felt  uncom- 
fortable enough  where  he  was,  but  down  be- 
low ho  didn't  dare  to  go,  and  scarcely  dared 
to  look  ;  for  there,  he  fully  believed,  the  ghost 
of  Onofrio  was  wandering,  confined  to  that 
lower  story,  and  haunting  it.  You  and  I  may 
smile  at  poor  Malachi's  shuperstition,  but  a 
monk  leads  a  ghostly  sort  of  life,  and  it  was 
no  joke  to  go  alone  as  he  wint,  right  aftlier 
reading  such  a  manuscript  as  that  of  Aloy- 
sius. 

"The  other  reason  why  ho  didn't  go  any 
farther  was,  that  he  had  no  motive.  He  was 
utterly  and  sublimely  destichule  of  any  do- 
sire  for  money.  AH  his  wants  were  supplied; 
ho  was  contiiit.  'Why  should  ho  bother  his 
liead  ? 

"Still  he  thought  it  his  juty,  for  the  sake 
of  the  monastery,  and  out  of  loyiil  regyard  to 
San  Antonio,  to  tell  the  abbot.  This  he  did 
in  the  most  effective  way  by  reading  the  manu- 
script to  him.  The  abbot  listened  with  deep 
and  painful  feelings.  He  was  not  a  strong- 
minded  man,  nor  was  he  avaricious,  liioic- 
over,  he  was  shupcrstitious.  He  would  not 
have  gone  below  in  search  of  that  trisurc,  ns 


Ills  predecessor  had  done,  for  all  the  worruld. 
In  fact,  he  charged  mo  cousin  Malachi  to  wait 
the  passage-way  up  as  he  had  found  it,  and 
niver  to  raintion  the  subjict  to  any  of  the 
other  monks.  This  me  cousin  Malachi  did. 
He  walled  it  up  again  as  ho  had  found  it ; 
and,  as  he  didn't  wi.sh  the  monks  to  get  into 
any  trouble  through  him,  he  kept  his  secret 
till  hia  death,  and  thin  confided  it  to  me." 


CIIAl'TIMl   IV. 


A    STROKE   FOR   FORTCNE. 


Some  further  conversation  followed  upon 
the  story  of  Aloysius,  and  Blake  asked  sun- 
dry questions  of  a  character  which  showed 
that  he  had  not  lost  a  single  word.  Blake 
conceded  the  possibility,  nay,  even  the  prob- 
ability, of  a  treasure  having  once  been  eon- 
coaled  in  the  catacombs ;  but  was  inclined  to 
think  that,  in  the  course  of  ages,  it  must  have 
been  discovered.  O'Rourke,  on  the  other 
hand,  reminded  hira  of  the  nature  of  the 
Catacombs,  the  utter  ignorance  about  them 
which  existed  through  many  centuries ;  their 
comparatively  recent  rediscovery,  and  the 
small  extent  that  had  been  explored  in  com- 
parison with  what  yet  remained  to  be  iuves- 
tigated.  He  insisted  that  there  were  portions 
or  districts  of  these  vast  subterranean  realms 
which  must  have  been  for  ages  untrodden  by 
the  foot  of  man ;  and  that  any  thing  once 
placed  there,  no  matter  how  long  ago,  had 
most  probably  been  unseen  and  untouched 
ever  since.  He  laid  great  stress  upon  the  fact 
mentioned  by  Aloy.sius — that  all  the  slabs 
were  on  their  tombs;  that  no  gr.ave  was 
open — a  circumstance  which,  in  O'Rourke's 
view,  proved  beyond  a  doubt  that  they  had 
never  been  profaned  by  the  presence  of  rob- 
bers or  plunderers.  No  graves  are  sacred 
from  the  thief,  and  the  undisturbed  condition 
of  these  graves  proved  that  their  existence 
liad  been  unknown. 

"  And  no  wonder,"  said  he.  "  Have  you 
any  idea  of  the  ixtlnt  of  the  Roman  Cata- 
combs ?  Did  ye  iver  pay  any  attintion  to  the 
subjict,  or  begin  to  farrum  any  conciption 
about  thim  ?  The  Catacombs  have  an  ixtint 
that  I  can  scarce  give  any  idea  of.  Thoy  ixist 
beneath  all  that  surface  which  once  forrumed 
the  site  of  ancient  Rome;  and  not  only  so, 
but  all  that  surface  which  was  covered  by  the 


14 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION'. 


il 


suburbs.  These  suburbs,  (is  wo  know,  were 
vast,  auJ  perhaps  cuutiiiiicd  a  popuhitiun  n.s 
great  as  the  city  itself;  ibr,  as  was  said,  one 
could  not  tell  where  the  city  inded,  and  the 
country  began.  More  than  this,  the  Cata- 
combs have  been  Ibund  near  Oslia,  and  pas- 
sages have  been  discovered  which  seem  to  go 
under  the  Tiber,  anticeepaliug  the  Thames 
Tunnel  by  eighteen  cinturics.  The  vulgar  idea 
of  the  Catacombs  is,  that  they  were  made  for 
the  purpose  of  obtaining  Roman  ciniint  for 
building-purposes.  This  is  now  exploded. 
The  catacombs  ar<»  excavated  in  a  rock  that 
cannot  be  used  for  cimiut  of  any  kind.  The 
latest  researches  have  shown  that  they  were 
undoubtedly  made  for  burial-purposes ;  and 
the  only  question  is  whetlier  they  were  ori- 
ginally Christian  or  not.  That  they  were 
eventually  Christian  is  ividint.  For  niesclf,  I 
have  no  doubt  as  to  their  Christian  origin, 

"Another  misconciption  about  thim  is  as 
to  their  farrum.  Tlioro  has  been  a  privilent 
opinion  that  they  ixtindcd  unintcrrui)tidly  in 
innumerable  passages.  It  is  now  known, 
liowcvcr,  that  they  only  exist  where  there  is 
that  peculiar  soft  sandstone  in  which  they  are 
ixcavated.  As  tliis  only  ixists  in  certain 
places,  so  the  Catacombs  forrum  distinct 
quarters,  or  districts.  These  are  all  ixcavated 
in  stories,  one  above  the  other — sometimes  as 
many  as  four  or  five  are  found— but  many  are 
disconnected  altogithcr  with  any  other  dis- 
trict. Tlie  whole  of  the  ground  under  Rome 
is  not  all  honeycombed,  tlierefore,  but  only 
certoin  portions  over  an  iraminse  ixlint  of 
country.  Now,  the  place  which  we  are  con- 
sldcriug  seems  to  me  to  be  one  of  these  iso- 
lated districts,  the  very  ixistence  of  which  is 
unsuspicted.  No  ixplorers  have  troubled  it 
thus  far.  Me  cousin  Malachi  found  the  tombs 
undisturbed.  We  may  call  thim  the  Palatine 
Catacombs — since  they  certainly  seem  to  run 
under  the  Palatine — and,  if  this  is  so,  I  can 
only  say  that  the  Palatine  Catacombs  are  wor- 
thy of  being  ixplored — and  soon,  too — before 
any  of  these  blackgvard  archayologists  git 
wind  of  their  ixistince." 

"  But  allowing  that  the  treasure  was  once 
put  there,"  said  IMake,  "  and  even  allowing 
that  it  may  be  there  yet,  do  you  think  that 
there  is  any  possibility  of  any  one  getting  at 
it?" 

"  Do  I  think  that  ?  And,  if  I  didn't  think 
that,  what  d'ye  suppose  Pd  be  talking  mcself 
hoarse  for?    It's  not  for  idle  intertainment 


Pni  talking  now.  It's  business  1  mean.  Don't 
ye  see  tluit  y  Am  I  not  earnest  enough  to 
show  ye  how  risolute  I  am  'i  Hut  as  to  git- 
ting  at  it,  1  can  answer  that.  I  believe  it  to 
be  possible,  but  I  haven't  yet  actually  tested 
it.  Still,  I  haven't  the  smallest  doubt  in  life. 
Listen,  now  • 

"The  monastery  of  San  Antonio  is  in  the 
Via  San  Antonio,  llmt  begins  near  the  Corso, 
and  runs  toward  tlie  Palatine  and  the  Forum. 
It  is  tliickly  built  up  with  houses.  These 
houses  are,  without  exciption,  all  very  old, 
and  strongly  built ;  they  look  like  houses  that 
have  deep  vaults  beneath.  The  people  living 
along  here  belong  to  the  poorer  classes.  Now 
what  is  there  to  privint  any  one  from  rinting 
one  of  these  houses,  or  the  lower  part  of  one  ':' 
If  I  were  to  rint  one,  I'll  tell  ye  what  I'd  do. 
I'd  begin  an  ixcavation  on  a  small  scale,  so 
as  to  try  to  feel  my  way  toward  the  passages 
of  the  Palatine  Catacombs.  I  feci  confidint 
tiiat  a  moderate  ixcavation  would  lead  mc 
into  some  passage.  In  the  Catacombs,  or  in 
any  of  their  districts  or  divisions,  the  passages 
are  numerous,  and  lie  close  togither.  I  be- 
lieve, thin,  that  any  one,  by  digging  from  the 
cellar  of  one  of  these  houses,  would  reach  be- 
fore long  the  very  passage  of  Aloysius  itsilf. 
That  passage  runs  in  a  diriction  which  ought 
to  make  it  nearly  parallel  with  the  Via  di  San 
Antonio ;  and  the  only  trouble  would  be  to 
know  how  to  dig,  and  in  what  diriction.  This 
is  the  only  trouble,  and  it  is  one  that  would, 
of  course,  be  rimidied  by  time  and  persever- 
ance. 

"It's  true  the  vaults  of  San  Antonio  must 
be  deeper  by  at  least  one  story  than  the  cel- 
lars of  the  adjoining  houses ;  but,  in  that  case, 
the  explorer  would  have  to  arrange  his  course 
with  rifirince  to  that,  and  aim  at  a  lower  livil. 
One  advantage  I  have  is,  that  I  have  so  accu- 
rate a  discriplion  from  mc  cousin  Malachi  of 
the  starting-point  of  the  passage  of  Aloysius, 
and  of  its  diriction,  that  I'm  confidint  I  could 
hit  it  without  any  trouble  or  disippointmint 
whativcr.  llowaudivcr,  I'll  find  out  for  me- 
self  before  long,  and  know  exactly  what  the 
probabilities  are.  Of  course,  whin  once  in- 
side the  Catacombs,  one  can  find  the  passage 
of  Aloysius,  which  must  still  be  recognizable 
by  the  ind  being  walled  up.  Once  find  that, 
and  thin  all  that  there  is  to  do  is  to  follow  the 
course  mintioned  in  the  manuscript.  Any  one 
can  do  it,  provided  he  has  the  requisite  knowU 
edge,  and  is  disticbute  of  shuperstition,  and 


iWl 


^ 


A  STROKE   FOR  J'ORTUNE. 


15 


nail.  Don't 
.  inoiif^h  to 
lit  lid  to  git- 
olicvo  it  to 
tuully  tented 
luiibl  in  life. 

1110  is  in  tbe 

ar  tlie  Corso, 

J  the  Fonim. 

liics.     Theac 

[ill   very  old, 

liousi'S  that 

podple  living 

lasses.    Now 

from  rinting 

part  of  one  V 

!  what  I'll  do. 

uall  Beale,  bo 

the  passapca 

feel  confldint 

)iild  lead   mo 

n  combs,  or  in 

, the  passages 

either.     I  be- 

iinp  from  the 

ould  reach  bc- 

iloysius  itsilf. 

n  which  onglit 

the  Via  di  San 

5  would  be  to 

iriclion.    This 

ne  that  would, 

and  persever- 

Antonio  must 

i'  than  the  ed- 
it, in  that  case, 
ni^e  his  course 
It  a  lower  livil, 
'.  have  f?o  accu- 
siu  Malnchi  of 
;e  of  Aloysius, 
intidint  I  eould 
disippointmint 
d  out  for  me- 
actly  Avhat  the 
whin  onee  in- 
ad  the  passage 
)e  recognizable 
3nce  find  that, 
is  to  follow  the 
jript.  Any  one 
equisite  knowl- 
pcrstition,  and 


is  not  afraid  of  the  ghost  of  Onofrio,  like  uie 
poor  Cousin  Malachi. 

"  Well,  liow,  nie  boy,  th9  question  is  this  : 
do  you  feel  inclined  to  accoinpiiny  me  on 
this  ixphmitionV  Ye  know  the  whole  now. 
The  fact  is,  one  can't  do  much  alone.  Things 
must  Ijo  tiiken  down — ladders  and  lamps,  and 
pi'ihaps  pickaxes  and  spades.  Wo  must  ex- 
pict  some  ravages  to  bo  made  by  time.  The 
passage  may  have  fallen  in,  and  Liay  have  to 
bo  cleared  away.  All  this  may  bo  so  difBcult 
for  one  man  to  do  alone,  that  the  obstacles 
may  utterly  defeat  ids  atlimpt." 

"Oil,  i)y  Jove!"  cried  Uhiko,  "  as  for 
that,  if  tliere's  even  a  ghost  of  a  chance  of 
success,  I'd  go — like  a  shot." 

"Didn't  1  know  it?  Sure  I  did,"  ex- 
claimed O'ltoiiike,  with  genuine  satisfaction 
in  his  tone,  lie  tlicrcupon  poured  out  another 
glass  of  wine,  and  slowly  quailed  it. 

"  Any  thing  that  may  better  my  circum- 
stances is  woleonie  to  me,"  said  lihike.  "  I 
can't  lose  any  money,  for  I  have  none  to  lose. 
I  can  only  lose  time — and,  unfortunately,  that 
is  a  commodity  of  very  little  value  to  me  just 
now,  or  to  anybody  else.  It  may  be  a  wild- 
goose  chase,  but  I'm  willing  to  try  it." 

"  Sure,  and  ain't  that  the  true  spirit  of 
a  man,  a  Christian,  and  a  hayro  ? "  cried 
O'Kourko.  "  Ye're  sure  to  be  successful — 
but  it's  just  as  well  for  ye  not  to  feel  sure — 
if  it's  only  to  keep  yer  head  cool,  and  yer 
hand  stiddy." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  at  all  sanguine,"  said  Blake, 
with  a  laugh.  "  1  go  in  merely  fo#  a  specu- 
lation.'' 

"The  fact  is,"  said  O'Uourke,  "it's  now 
over  two  years  since  me  cousin  Malachi 
died,  and  since  thin  I've  been  reading  the 
manuscript  over  and  over,  and  brooding 
over  it,  and  an'anging  some  plan.  But  I 
soon  found  that  I  couldn't  do  any  thing  till  I 
could  get  the  proper  associate.  I  wanted  a 
man  of  pluck,  and  honor,  and  risolution,  and 
nerve,  and  hardihood.  All  these  qualities  it 
is  dillicult  to  find  combined  in  the  same  man 
— and  in  my  case  I  wanted  a  man  whom  I 
could  rely  on  as  a  frind — one  'who  would 
stand  by  me  in  sickness,  and  not  leave  me  in 
the  lurch.  Now,  mo  boy,  I've  only  known 
you  for  a  year,  but  you  como  nearer  to  the 
standard  than  any  man  I  know,  and  this  is 
the  reason  why  I've  taken  you  into  my  eonfi- 
dince,  and  asked  you  to  come  with  me  into 
this  interprise.    If  it  is  successful  the  half  is 


yours  ;  if  not — why,  thin — sure  to  glory — 
tliere's  no  harrum  done — and  nothing  lost  but 
a  fuw  niontli.s'  time." 

"Well,  old  fellow,"  said  Blake,  in  a  frank 
and  cordial  tone,  "  I  thank  you  for  the  com- 
pliment you  pay  me,  in  taking  me  into  your 
confidence,  and,  whether  we  succeed  or  not,  I 
shall  feel  just  the  same  sort  of — ii — gratitude, 
you  know,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  As 
to  standing  by  you,  I  assure  you,  my  dear 
fellow,  you  may  count  on  me  to  any  extent, 
and  under  any  circumstances.  I  can  do  a 
good  day's  work — if  it  comes  to  that — I'm 
not  superstitious — I  don't  believe  in  ghosts 
of  any  sort  or  kind ;  and  if  there's  any  gold 
down  there,  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  that  gold  will 
have  to  show  itself  to  the  light  of  day,  for 
I'll  have  it  up,  or  else  I'll  leave  my  bones  in 
the  Catacombs  along  with  those  of  our  mu- 
tual  friend  Onofrio  1  " 

O'ltourke  smiled  blandly. 

"  Sure,  and  if  it  comes  to  leaving  your 
bones — or  my  bones,"  said  he,  "  we  couldn't 
find  a  better,  a  quieter,  or  a  more  respictable 
and  altogither  unexeiptional  place,  thau  thiiu 
same  Catacombs." 

"  W^ell,"  said  Blake,  cheerily,  "  when  do 
you  propose  to  begin?  " 

"  As  soon  as  possible,  if  you  consint,"  said 
O'Kourke. 

"  Of  course  I  consent.  I  have  no  choice. 
I'm  a  hard-up  man.  In  those  few  words  you 
may  read  a  melancholy  story." 

"  Sure  and  the  wisest  and  the  best  of  the 
human  race  are  in  the  same  fix,  as  a  general 
thing,"  responded  O'Uourke.  "  Well — as  to 
our  work — I  propose,  as  I  said,  to  begin  as 
soon  as  possible.  Now,  my  intintion  is  to 
set  out  for  Rome  to-morrow — since  you  have 
decided  in  favor  of  this  interprise— and  thin 
I  intend  to  indivor  to  rint  one  of  thim  houses 
along  the  Via  San  Antonio,  as  nigh  to  the 
monastery  as  possible.  Sure  and  there  can't 
be  any  doubt  but  I'll  bo  able  to  rint  some  one 
among  them  ;  and  my  opinion  is  that  if  I  of- 
fer rint  high  enough  I'll  be  able  to  git  the 
house  that  stands  next  door.  If  I  do  so,  I 
can  hit  the  passage  of  Aloysius  in  one  night's 
work.  But,  be  that  as  it  may,  whativer 
house  I  git,  I  mean  to  go  to  work  at  once, 
alone,  and  see  what  I  can  do.  I  think  it's 
better  for  me  to  attuid  to  the  preliminaries 
alone.  It's  quieter,  safer,  and  less  suspicious. 
I  don't  want  to  ind.anger  the  projict  by  ixci- 
ting  attintiou  of  any  kind  if  I  can  help  it." 


16 


AX  OI'EX   QUESTION'. 


J: 


"But  you  nuri'ly  don't  intend  to  do  all 
that  dif^ging  yourself  V  "  cried  Ulako. 

"  Sure  and  I  do." 

"Oh,  but  I  ouglit  to  help  you  to  some  ex- 
tent." 

"  So  you  may." 

"How?"  asked  RIako. 

"  Wiiy,  by  not  .saying  ono  word  about  thi.s 
to  any  livrng  soul." 

"Oil,  I'll  keep  dark." 

"  Yis,  but  you  mustn't  even  hint  at  it — 
not  to  any  living  poul,  male  ov  female,  man 
or  child,  friud  or  rilitiv.  No  (mo  must  liiive 
the  least  su.spicion.  If  you  do,  you'll  indan- 
gorit  all.  It'3  so  strange  and  unusual  a  thing, 
tliat  the  very  mintion  of  it  would  sit  the  mind 
agog,  and  it  wouhl  git  sprid  abroad." 

"  Oh,  well,  as  to  that,  it's  easy  enough  for 
ine  to  keep  secret.  I've  no  relative  in  llio 
world  except  my  poor  dear  old  raotlicr,  and  I 
should  not  feci  inclined  to  bother  and  worry 
her  by  making  her  tiio  confidante  of  any  such 
plan  as  this.  She'd  be  worried  out  of  lier 
life,  poor  old  lady.  And  then  as  to  friends, 
I  have  only  one  besides  yourself — Ilfllmuth, 
you  know — and  he's  not  a  fellow  that  I  should 
clioosc  to  talk  to  about  a  thing  like  this. 
Ilc'd  scorn  the  whole  thing — treasure  and  all. 
Oh,  no,  I  value  Ilellrauth's  good  opinion  too 
much  to  say  any  thing  to  him  about  this.  So 
you  see  the  secret  is  inviolable,  from  the  very 
nature  of  the  ca.se,  and  of  my  circum- 
stances." 

"  Well,  it's  just  as  well  to  have  it  so," 
said  O'Rourke,  pleasantly.  "There's  no 
harrum  done  by  keeping  this  a  secret,  but  if 
it  is  not  kept  secret,  it  may  lead  to  all  the 
harrum  in  the  worruld." 

"  Well,"  said  Blake,  "  those  are  the  only 
ones  that  I  should  mention  any  of  my  afi'airs 
to ;  my  other  friends  are  not  at  all  ou  an  in- 
timate footing ;  they  are  merely  acfiuaint.ances, 
and,  in  fact,  I  sec  very  little  of  anybody  here 
iu  Paris,  except  Ilellmuth  and  yourself." 

"  I've  niver  had  the  pleasure,"  said 
O'Rourke,  "of  meeting  with  your  frind  Ilell- 
muth." 

"  No,"  said  Ulake.  "  The  fact  is,  you  both 
keep  so  much  by  yourselves  that  it  is  next  to 
an  impossibility  that  you  should  ever  stray 
across  one  another's  paths.  Still  I  wonder 
that  you  haven't  sometimes  stumbled  upon 
one  another  here.  lie  comes  here  a  good 
deal — and  so  do  you." 

"  Yis,"  ..aid  O'Rourke  ;  "  but  I'm  so  busy 


all  day  that,  whin  I  do  come  licrc,  it's  gincral- 
ly  late—" 

"  Well,  I  hope  you'll  both  meet  some  day ; 
and  I'm  sure  you'd  like  him — lie's  a  man  of 
no  common  kind.  If  you'd  known  him,  you'd 
not  have  chosen  me — though  I  don't  know, 
cither — for  Ilellmuth  has  such  a  scorn  of 
money  that  I  don't  believe  even  the  treasure 
of  the  Oiesars  could  induce  him  to  swerve  ono 
hiiir'.s-brca(lth  from  the  lino  of  life  that  he 
has  marked  out  for  himscll." 

"  Sure,  in  that  case,"  said  O'Rourke,  "  he'd 
niver  do  for  me  at  all,  at  all.  I'm  an  impt- 
eunioua  man,  and  I  love  impecunious  min. 
The  man  that  has  no  need  of  money  is  too 
prosperous  to  sliuit  me.  He  in  an  .ilien  to 
me,  and  witli  such  I  have  no  symp:i       ." 

"  Well,"  said  RIake,  "  and  so  intend 

to  go  at  once  to  Rome  ?  " 

"  Yis." 

"  And  how  long  may  it  be  before  I  may 


hear 


rom  you 


"  Th.'.t  dcpinds  upon  circumstances  of 
course.  I  may  bo  through  in  a  week,  and  I 
may  be  detained  longer.  On  the  wliole,  it  is 
best  to  fix  tlie  outside  limit." 

"  Well,  what  is  that  ?  I  intend  leaving 
Paris  shortly  myself— to  recruit  for  a  time — 
and  will  not  come  back,  if  I  can  help  it,  for 
some  weeks." 

"  Sure,  and  wliile  yer  about  it  ye  can  give 
ycr.solf  months  if  ye  ehoo.se,"  said  O'Rourke. 
"  The  outside  limit  which  I  should  fix  would 
be  at  least  three  months." 

"  Three  months '!  Oh,  that  will  suit  me 
capitally." 

"  Y'c  see,  I  have  to  rint  tlie  house,  and 
thin  work  to  git  to  the  Catacombs.  I'll  have 
to  work  slowly  and  cautiously,  so  as  not  to 
be  suspictid.  Rut  in  three  months,  at  the 
very  farthest,  I  ought  to  do  all  tliat  I  can 
ixpict  to  do,  and  if  I  don't  do  it  in  that  time, 
it'll  be  because  I  can't  do  it  alone,  in  which 
case  I'll  have  to  git  you  to  hilp  me." 

"  Well,  you  know,  I'd  help  you  at  the 
very  first  if  you'd  let  me.'' 

"  Y'is,  but  I  don't  want  ye — at  the  first. 
So  we'll  say  three  months." 

"Very  well." 

"  Arc  ye  going  any  distance  ?  " 

"  No — I  don't  intend  to  go  out  of  France. 
I'm  simply  going  to  recruit,  and  I  liavcn't 
made  up  my  mind  yet  where  I  shall  go." 

"  Well,  that's  obout  the  best  way  to  re- 
cruit.   Wander  off.    Let  yerself  drift.    Tliat'a 


licrc,  il'i  gincral- 

.  moot  some  dny ; 
, — Ihj'h  h  mnu  of 
mown  liiiii,  you'd 
rh  I  don't  know, 
inch  ft  Hcorn  of 
•vcn  tlio  treiisuie 
liin  to  swerve  ono 

0  of  life  tlmt  he 

1  O'Rouiko, "  he'd 
11.  I'm  an  inipc- 
iinpccimious  min. 
1  of  moni'y  is  too 
lie  is  nn  nlicn  to 
o  symp:i        " 

ind  so  intend 


t  he  hof(n-c  I  may 

circumstances  of 
1  in  a  werk,  and  I 
On  tlio  wliole,  it  is 
t." 

I  intend  leavin^ 
■ccruit  for  a  time — 
if  I  ciui  liolp  it,  for 

ihout  it  YC  can  give 
)se,"  said  O'ltouikc. 
1  I  should  fix  would 

1,  that  will  suit  me 

rint  the  house,  and 
atacombs.  I'll  have 
iously,  so  as  not  to 
liree  months,  at  tho 

0  do  all  that  I  can 
I't  do  it  in  that  time, 
lo  it  alone,  in  which 
to  hilp  me." 

I'd  help  you  nt  tho 

J." 

rant  ye— at  tho  first. 

lis." 

Jistancc?" 

1  to  go  out  of  France; 
ccruit,  and  I  haven't 
fhere  I  shall  go." 

t  the  best  way  to  re- 
it  yerself  drift.    That's 


to 


tilii 


VILLENEUVE. 


17 


m 


to 


b 


t!  .vay.  But  yo'll  be  back  here  in  three 
months  ?  " 

"  Oli,  yes,  and  probably  in  three  weeks." 

"  Very  well,  thin.  I'll  know  where  to 
find  ye — or  to  write  to  ye  if  I  can't  come  me- 
Bilf— " 

O'Rourke  now  rose. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  mo  boy,  it's  glad  I  am 
to  git  ye  for  an  assiatint,  and,  still  better,  a 
frind.  Ye'll  allow  me  to  say  thougTi,  that  in 
this  case,  as  I  ferrumly  believe,  it'll  be  the 
very  best  stroke  of  work  that  ye  iver  turruned 
yer  arrum  to.  I'll  make  ivery  thing  riddy, 
and,  at  the  shupreme  momint  I'll  call  on  you 
to  accompany  me  on  a  promenade  along  the 
passage  of  Aloysius.  Ye  may  be  sanguine  or 
dispondint,  whichivcr  ye  choose,  or.Iy  mind  ye 
keep  the  secret — that's  all — and  thin  ye'll 
find  ycrscif— with  me — the  heir  of  the  (risure 
of  the  Ccesars  !  " 

"  I  swear,  old  fellow,"  said  Blake,  sudden- 
ly, "  you  could  never  guess  what  an  odd  idea 
struck  my  mind  just  now." 

"  An  odd  idea  ?  "  said  O'Rourke ;  "  such 
aa  what — for  instance  ?  " 

"  Why — this.  You've  read  the  '  Arabian 
Nights  ? ' " 

"  Sure,  and  I  have,  but  what  of  thiiu  ?  " 

"  Do  you  remember  the  immortal  story 
of  Aladdin  and  the  V,  onderful  Lnn-p?  '  " 

"  Mesilf  does — of  course.  Br.t  w»iat  i'lin  ?  " 

"  Nothing — only  it  was  ?ucii  an  ^"isurd 
fancy.  You  looked  to  me  just  then  exactly 
like  the  magician  who  came  to  Aladdin,  and 
persuaded  him  to  accompany  liim  to  the  cave 
where  the  magic  lamp  was  kept,  you  know." 

Blake  said  this  in  a  careless  end  lively 
tone,  with  a  bright  gleam  in  his  clear  and 
pleasant  eyes,  and  a  joyous  smile  on  his  frank 
and  open  face.  It  w;  a  a  passing  remark, 
thrown  off  with  the  utmost  nonehalance ;  but 
as  O'Rourke  heard  it  there  came  over  his  face 
a  sudden  change — and  a  total  one.  His  com- 
plexion changed  to  one  of  a  sickly  pallor  ;  his 
brow  was  darkened  with  a  frown ;  his  pier- 
cing eyes  rested  gloomily  upon  the  face  of 
his  companion ;  his  hands  clutched  one  an- 
other behind  his  back.  But  this  was  only 
for  a  moment.  Blake  had  not  time  to  notice 
it.  In  another  moment  it  had  passed  away, 
..nd  O'Rourke's  face  was  as  before. 

He  laughed  boisterously. 

"  Well— well,"  he  said,  "  I  hope  it  may  be 
BO,  and  for  my  part  I  believe— though  you 
don't— that  it  will  bo  so — so  I  do  ;  for,  as  I've 
2 


been  saying,  I  believe  that  in  those  Palatine 
Catacombs  there  is  the  trisure  of  the  Ca!a:>.rs, 
and,  if  I'm  right — why  thin,  sure — and  it'a 
mesilf  that'll  be  the  majician  tlat'll  put  in 
your  hands  a  wilth  in  comparison  with  which 
even  «he  fabulous  riches  of  Aladdin  would  be 
paltry  and  contimptible.  Well,  we  won't  in- 
dulge  just  now  in  visions  like  these.  We'll 
defer  all  this  till  we  find  the  reality.  It's 
late,  and  I  must  be  off;  and  so,  Blake,  me 
boy,  good-night,  and  c^ood-by." 

He  held  out  his  h  tud.  Blake  took  it,  and 
they  shook  hand^  cordially.  O'Rourke  then 
took  his  depart',  re. 


CHAPTER    V. 

VILLENEUVE. 

The  Lake  of  Geneva  is  one  of  the  moat 
attractive  places  in  the  world,  and  to  the 
grace  of  natural  beauty  is  added  the  more 
subtile  charm  that  arises  from  the  closeness 
with  which  its  scenes  have  become  blended 
with  the  great  events  of  history,  and  the 
majestic  names  of  men  of  genius.  The  mem- 
ories of  Rousseau,  Voltaire,  Gibbon,  Byron, 
and  many  more,  are  inseparably  connected  with 
it ;  but  among  all  it  is  to  the  two  Englishmen 
that  its  fame  owes  most,  for  they  surely  loved 
it  best.  The  shade  of  the  great  historian 
seems  still  to  haunt  the  gardens  of  Lausanne; 
while  all  the  surrounding  scenes  still  wear 
those  epithets  with  which  the  mighty  poet 
endowed  them.  There  is  clear,  placid  Leman  ; 
the  Alps,  the  pyramids  of  Nature ;  Jura,  with 
her  misty  shroud  ;  there  too  under  the  sbad< 
owy  mountains  rises  the  Castle  of  Chillon, 
sombre  and  melancholy,  once  the  scene  of 
wrong  and  cruel  oppression,  but  now  a  place 
of  pilgrimage : 

....  "  For 'twas  trod, 
Until  hla  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  aa  if  tlie  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnlvard  I — May  none  tliose  marks  efface  t 

For  tliey  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God." 

It  was  early  morning,  and  the  sun  was 
jii::^  rising,  v/hen  two  young  ladies  left  the 
hotel  at  Villeneuve,  and  walked  al  -wly  along 
in  the  direction  of  the  Castle  of  Chillon. 
Both  of  them  were  young,  and  each  waa 
beautiful  in  her  way,  though  they  were  utter- 
ly unlike  and  di'tsimilar  in  features,  expres- 
sion,  manner,  and  tone.  One  had  clear,  calm 
blue  eyes;  golden  hair,  which  flowed  down 


w 


AN  OrEN  QUESTION. 


Si  ! 


from  a  cliiguon  of  very  moderate  dimensions, 
in  a  rippling  tide  of  frizzled  glory ;  diicplod 
chocks ;  and  small  mouth,  the  lines  of  which 
were  of  such  a  nature  that  they  formed  the 
impress  of  a  perpetual  smile,  ller  companion 
had  a  delicate  and  ethereal  face,  over  which 
there  was  an  air  of  quiet  thoughtfulness  ;  her 
eyes  were  soft,  dark,  liquid,  and  lustrous, 
with  a  peculiar  expression  in  them  that  a 
superficial  glance  would  regard  as  savoring 
of  melancholy,  but  which  to  a  closer  observ- 
er would  indicate  less  of  sadness  than  of 
earnestness.  Her  hair  also  floated  behind, 
after  the  same  fashion  as  her  companion's; 
but,  while  the  one  owed  its  beauty  to  the 
crimping-irons,  the  dark  masses  of  the  other 
curled  lustrously  in  the  graceful  negligence 
of  Nature. 

They  walked  slowly,  and  noticed  the  suc- 
cessive features  of  the  surrounding  scenery, 
which  they  spoke  of  with  great  animation. 
At  length  a  turn  in  the  road  brought  them  in 
Bight  of  the  castle. 

"0  Inez!"  said  the  lady  Tiith  the  golden 
hair,  "  what  a  darling  old  castle  !  Look  ! — 
did  you  ever  see  any  thing  like  it  in  all  your 
life  ?  and  isn't  it  perfectly  lovely  ?  " 

The  one  called  Inez  said  nothing  for  some 
time,  but  stood  looking  at  the  sombre  pile  in 
quiet  admiration. 

"  It  must  be  Chillon,"  said  she,  at 
length. 

"  Chil — what,  Inez  dear  ? "  asked  the 
Other. 

"  Chilton,"  said  Inez.  "  You've  read  By- 
ron's '  Prisoner  of  Chillon,'  you  know,  haven't 
you,  Bessie  ?  " 

Bessie  shook  her  head  with  a  doleful  ex- 
pression. 

"  Well,  Inez  dear,"  said  she,  "  really  you 
know  poetry  is  so  stupid,  but  I  dare  say,  after 
all,  I  have  read  it,  only  I  don't  remember  one 
word  about  it ;  I  never  do,  you  know,  dear. 
You  see  I  always  skim  it  all  over.  I  skim 
Shakespeare,  and  Bacon,  and  Gibbon,  and 
Sir  Isaac  Newton,  and  all  the  rest  of  those 
Stupid  writers.  They  make  my  head  ache  al- 
ways." 

Inez  smiled. 

"Well,  I'm  sure,  Bessie,"  said  she,  "if 
you  try  Newton  and  Bacon,  I  don't  wonder 
that  ynu  find  it  rather  difficult  to  read  them. 
I  should  skim  them  myself." 

"■Oh,  you  know  it's  all  very  well  for  you, 
Ines  dear,  when  you've  got  so  much  intellect. 


but  for  poor  me  1  At  any  rate,  what  is  there 
about  this  Chip — Chil — how  is  it?" 

"Chillon,"  said  Inez. 

"  Chillon,  then.  Tell  me  the  story,  Inez 
dear,  for  you  know  I'm  awfully  fond  of  stories, 
and  you  tell  them  so  deliciously.  I  only  wish 
I  was  so  clever." 

"  Nonsense,  Bessie ! "  said  Inez ;  and,  after 
this  disclaimer  of  Bessie's  too  open  flattery, 
she  proceeded  to  give  her  companion  the  sub- 
stance of  Byron's  poem. 

"Well  now,  really,  Inez  dear,"  said  Bes- 
sie, as  her  companion  finished  her  story, 
"  what  was  the  use  of  it  all  ?  Why  did  that 
poor,  silly  creature  go  to  prison  at  all  ?  Sure 
its  mad  ho  was." 

At  this,  Inez  looked  at  her  fiiend  with 
sad,  reproiichful  eyes,  Bessic\s  intonation 
and  accent  were  somewhat  peculiar ;  for, 
though  she  was  perfectly  well  bred  and  lady- 
like in  her  tone,  there  was,  however,  in  her 
voice  a  slight  Hibernian  flavor,  originally 
caught,  perhaps,  from  some  Irish  nurse,  and 
never  altogether  lost.  There  was  an  oddity 
about  this  which  was  decidedly  attractive, 
and  the"laate  taste  ia  life  av  the  brogue," 
which  was  thus  noticeable  in  Bessie,  gave  to 
that  young  person  a  wonderful  witchory,  and 
suggcted  infinite  possibilities  in  her  of  droll- 
ery or  irchness. 

"'eople  often  have  to  sufl'er  for  their 
Principles,  of  course,"  said  Inez,  gravely. 

"  But  I  don't  see  why  he  should  bother 
about  his  principles,"  persisted  Bessie.  "  No 
one  thanked  him  for  it,  at  all  at  all." 

"  He  had  to.  lie  believed  in  them,  and 
of  course  could  not  give  up  his  belief." 

"But  he  needn't  have  gone  so  far,  you 
know,  Inez  denr.  Why  couldn't  he  have 
made  it  >ip  with  the  count  or  the  juke,  or 
whoever  it  was?  " 

"  Why,  Bessie,  how  absurd  I  A  man  can't 
give  up  his  belief  so  easily.  Some  things 
people  must  sufl'er.  You  and  I  are  Catholics, 
and  if  we  were  ordered  to  change  our  religion 
we  couldn't  do  it.     We  should  have  to  sufi'er." 

Bessie  shook  her  pretty  little  head. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  really  don't  see  how  I 
could  stand  being  put  in  a  dungeon  with  rats 
and  things,  and  so  dark  too ;  and  bosides  it 
was  difterent  with  this  raiin.  It  wasn't  his 
religion,  but  some  absurd  bother  about  poli- 
tics, I'm  sure  there's  no  danger  of  my  ever 
getting  into  trouble  about  politics.  But,  oh, 
Inez  dear,  there  he  is — I  know  it — look  1 " 


•I 
I!  ; 

ll 


i.(t 


VILLENEUVE. 


m 


3,  what  is  there 
Jit?" 

the  Btory,  Inez 

fond  of  stories, 

ly.    I  only  wish 

Inez ;  and,  after 

10  open  flattery, 
ipaulon  tlie  sub- 
dear,"  said  Bas- 
hed   her    Btory, 

Why  did  that 
on  at  all  ?    Sure 

her  fiiend  with 
ssic^a  intonatioa 
t  peculiar ;    for, 

11  bred  and  lady- 
I  however,  in  her 
flavor,  originally 

Irish  nurse,  and 
re  was  an  oddity 
idedly  attractive, 

av  the  brogue," 
in  Bessie,  gave  to 
•ful  witch'-'ry,  and 
es  in  her  of  droU- 

I  Bufler  for  their 
[nez,  gravely, 
he  should  bother 
ited  Bessie.    "  No 
ill  at  all." 
:ved  in  them,  and 
his  belief." 
gone  BO  far,  you 
couldn't  he  liave 
t  or  the  juke,  or 

i\rd  1  A  man  can't 
ly.  Some  things 
nd  I  are  Catholics, 
hange  our  religion 
lid  have  to  suflcr." 

little  head, 
lly  don't  see  how  I 

dungeon  with  rats 
00  ;  and  besides  it 
an.  It  wasn't  his 
bother  about  poli- 
d;inger  of  my  ever 

politics.  ]{ut,  oh, 
new  it — look  1" 


I 
I 


The  sudden  change  iu  Bessie's  remarks 
was  caused  by  some  one  whom  she  happened 
to  see  coming  up  the  road  behind  them  as  she 
casually  looked  back.  Whoever  it  was,  how- 
ever, Inez  did  not  choose  to  look,  as  Bessie 
told  her.  On  the  contrar)',  she  seemed  to 
know  perfectly  well  who  it  was,  and  to  feel 
some  slight  embarrassment,  for  a  flush  came 
over  her  face,  and  she  looked  straight  before 
her  without  saying  a  word. 

"  Now,  I  think  it's  a  great  shame,"  snid 
Bessie,  after  a  moment's  pause,  in  a  fretful 
tone. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Wiiy,  Dr.  Blake,  since  he's  joined  us,  I 
never  see  any  thing  of  you." 

"  Why,  Bessie,  what  perfect  nonsense  1 
You  are  with  me  all  the  time." 

"  Oh,  but  I  mean  I  never  have  you  to  my- 
self now  at  all.  It's  nothing  but  Dr.  Blake 
all  the  time.  He  is  always  with  you.  Your 
papa  aud  you  are  fairly  bound  up  in  him. 
And  it's  a  great  shame  entirely,  bo  it  is.  And 
he  is  so  awfully  devoted — why,  he  worships 
the  ground  you  tread  on  !  " 

At  this,  the  cheeks  of  Inez  blushed  like 
flame. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  bo  absurd," 
Bald  eh 3.  "You  arc  talking  nothing  but 
the  most  perfect  nonsense.  I'apa  and  I, 
of  course,  both  esteem  Dr.  Blake,  and  he  is 
of  great  use  to  poor  papa  in  his  illness,  and 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  papa  would  ever 
have  done  without  him." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure,"  continued  Bessie,  in  a 
plaintive  voice;  "of  all  stupid  people,  the 
very  worst  iu  the  world  are  two  devoted 
lovers." 

"  You  absurd,  silly  child  ! "  exclaimed 
Inez,  turning  away. 

"  Why,  I'm  sare  I  do  not  know  what  else 
to  call  you.  Doesn't  he  give  you  flowers  all 
the  time  ?  Doesn't  he  sit  and  fasten  his  eyes 
on  you,  and  look  as  though  he  longed  to  eat 
you  up?  Doesn't  he  always  lo  "  at  me, 
whenever  he  condescends  to  notice  poor  me 
at  all,  as  though  he  thinks  I  am  always  in 
the  way  ?  Don't  I  have  to  be.ar  the  painful 
consciousness  in  my  unhappy  breast  that  I 
urn  (le  trop  f  " 

"  Hush,  you  silly  little  goose  1 "  cried  Inez, 
hurriedly,  as  she  heard  the  sourd  of  foot- 
steps  close  behind  her,  fearful  that  Bessie's 
words  would  be  overheard.  Bessie,  however, 
stopped  short,  and    demurely  moved  away 


from  Inez,  as  though  she  wished  to  allow  the 
new-comer  every  chance  with  his  inamorata 
— a.  movement  which  the  other  noticed,  and 
tried  to  baffle  by  keeping  close  to  her.  Bu* 
this  little  by-play  was  now  interrupted  by 
clear,  manly  voice,  which  sounded  close  be 
aide  Inez. 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Wyverne.  I  nad 
no  idea  that  you  would  be  out  so  early  after 
your  fatigues  of  yesterday." 

Inez  turned  with  a  smile  of  pleasure,  and 
the  face  which  met  the.  new-comer's  eyes,  still 
wearing  the  flush  which  Bessie  had  called  up, 
seemed  to  him  to  be  inexpressibly  lovely.  lie 
was  a  tall  young  fellow,  with  a  fine,  fresh, 
frank,  open  face  ;  short,  crisp  hair;  whiskers 
of  the  English  cut,  and  a  joyous  light  in  his 
eyes,  that  spoke  of  bounding  youth  and  the 
bloom  of  perfect  health,  and  of  something 
more,  too,  that  might  have  been  duo  to  the 
present  meeting.  He  stood  with  his  hat  off, 
and  hand  extended.  Inez  accepted  his  greet- 
ing, and  said  simply : 

"Good-morning,  Dr.  Blake." 

"  Miss  Mordaunt,"  continued  Dr.  Blake, 
addressing  Bessie,  who  was  on  the  other 
side  of  Inez,  "good  morning.  What  do  you 
think  of  Villeneuve  now?  Will  you  ever 
dare  to  abuse  it  again  ?  Confess,  now,  did 
you  ever  see  such  a  lovely  sight  ?  For  my 
part,  I  think  it's  far  and  away  the  prettiest 
place  I  ever  saw,  and  for  invalids  it  is  per- 
fect. But,  by-the-way.  Miss  Wyverne,  have 
you  seen  your  father  this  morning?  How 
is  he  ?  " 

"Oh,  thanks,  he  is  much  better,"  said 
Inez.  "  lie  was  up  and  dressed  before  I  left. 
He  had  slept  better  than  usual,  he  said, 
though,  of  course,  he  never  sleeps  much  now 
— poor  papa  1 " 

"Oh,  well,  we  must  be  patient,"  said 
Blake.  "  We  cannot  expect  any  very  rapid 
improvement,  you  know.  This  is  the  place 
where  he  can  find  just  what  he  needs.  It  is 
so  quiet,  and  so  mild  and  beautiful.  And 
there  is  the  castle.  I  suppose  you  intend  to 
visit  it  as  soon  as  possible  ?  " 

"It  is  not  open  so  early  aa  this,  is  it?" 
asked  Inez. 

"  Well,  no ;  this  is  a  little  too  early,"  said 
Blake.  "For  tlie  present  we  must  content 
ourselves  with  an  outside  view.  But  the 
castle  itself  and  its  surroundings  will  be 
enough  for  a  first  visit.  Tliere  are  the  bat- 
tlements from  which  the  sounding-line  wafi 


1 1  t 


'^*> 


20 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


cast  a  thousand  feet  into  the  waters  below ; 
and  there  is  the  'little  isle,'  which  is  men- 
tioned in  the  poem : 

'"....  a  little  isle 
Which  In  my  very  face  did  smile, 

The  only  one  in  view — 
'  A  small  green  isle  it  cef^med  no  more 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dnngei.:'-llo-  /, 
Bnt  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  monntain-brcezo. 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  we..'^  young  fiower»  growing 

Of  gentle  brea.h  and  hue.' " 

Blake  was  full  of  the  enthusiasm  of  youth, 
and  inspired  by  the  seene  around  him,  and 
the  companionship  which  ho  had.  He  talked 
eloquently,  and  showed  so  wonderfully  inti- 
mate an  acquaintance  with  the  scene  before 
him,  that  it  seemed  as  though  he  must  have 
made  Lake  Leman  a  specialty,  or  at  least 
have  read  up  very  latel_v. 

They  sf  untered  along  thus,  and  at  length 
Eat  down  upon  a  grassy  knoll  by  the  road- 
side, while  the  whole  prospect  spread  itself 
magnificently  before  them. 

Bessie's  remarks  were  justified  by  the 
present  appearance  of  things.  It  was  as  she 
said.  It  was  the  old,  old  story  of  two  lovers. 
The  doctor  had  no  words  or  looks  or  thoughts 
for  any  one  but  Inez ;  and  the  joy  that  was 
in  his  face,  the  animation  of  his  manner,  the 
eloquence  of  his  words,  were  all  due  to  the 
intoxication  of  her  presence.  However  all 
this  may  have  seemed  to  Inez,  it  is  not  to  be 
expected  that  it  would  bo  altogether  pleasant 
to  Bessie  ;  bat  Miss  Bessie  was  not  one  who 
would  allow  herself  to  be  imposed  upon,  and 
so  she  proceeded  to  solace  herself  for  the 
neglect  which  she  supposed  to  bo  shown  her, 
by  entering  upon  a  deliberate  and  elaborate 
system  of  teasing,  which  was  directed  against 
Inez.  After  what  she  had  already  said,  Inez 
could  not  allow  herself  to  be  absorbed  so 
fully  by  Blake  as  she  had  formerly  done ;  and 
there  was  now  in  her  mind  a  sense  of  great 
uneasiness  as  to  what  Bessie  might  do,  which 
feeling  was  by  no  means  lessened  by  her 
friend's  actions. 

Soon  after  they  had  seated  themselves, 
BcsEie  began  to  move  away  from  Inez  as  far 
as  possible,  thus  ostentatiously  showing  a 
desire  to  leave  the  lovers  by  themselves,  and 
kept  her  face  turned  away,  as  though  she 
would  on  no  account  be  an  eye-witness  of 
their  proceedings.    AH  thie  embarrassed  Inez 


greatly,  for  the  relations  between  herself  and 
Blake  were  thus  far  of  a  purely  friendly  char- 
acter, nor  had  she  as  yet  thought  very  much 
of  any  thing  more.  Her  delicacy  was  shocked 
excessively  by  Bessie's  movements,  but  sho 
did  not  know  how  to  prevent  them.  She 
shifted  her  scat  once  or  twice,  so  as  to  keep 
near  to  her  friend  ;  but,  on  every  such  occa- 
sion, Bessie  would  make  such  a  point  of  re- 
moving again,  that  it  seemed  more  unpleasant 
to  follow  her  than  to  sit  still.  At  length  Inez 
could  endure  it  no  longer,  but  rose,  and,  call- 
ing Bessie,  who  by  that  time  had  taken  up 
her  station  with  her  back  turned  to  the  lov- 
ers about  a  hundred  yards  away,  she  waited 
for  her  to  join  her. 

Bessie  approached  with  an  air  of  demurest 
gravity,  which  would  have  made  Inez  laugh 
if  it  had  not  been  so  provoking.  As  she  came 
near  she  threw  at  Inez  a  deprecating  glance, 
and,  with  an  air  of  childish  shyness,  walked 
by  her  side  on  a  line  with  the  others,  but  on 
the  other  side  of  the  road.  Inez  gradually 
drew  nearer  to  her,  whereupon  Bessie  allowed 
herself  to  fall  behind. 

None  of  this  was  noticed  by  Blake,  who 
was  too  much  absorbed  by  the  joy  of  the 
moment  to  detect  any  thing  so  covert  as  Bes- 
sie's course  of  teasing.  In  fact,  he  felt  quite 
grateful  to  her  for  keeping  away,  and  allow, 
ing  him  thus  to  have  Inez  all  to  himself.  Thia 
feeling  ho  could  not  help  showing,  and  this 
only  increased  the  annoyance  and  embarrass- 
ment of  Inez.  The  position  of  a  young  lady 
in  the  presence  of  an  ardent  lover  is  never 
quite  free  from  embarrassment  when  specta- 
tors are  by ;  but,  when  the  spectator  is  one 
who  Las  shown  herself  to  be  a  merciless 
tease,  capable  of  dragging  to  the  light  the 
most  hidden  secrets  of  the  young  lady  afore- 
said, why  it  stands  to  reason  that  the  embar- 
rassment  must  become  intolerable.  So  it 
proved  with  Inez.  Her  attention  was  thus 
distracted  between  Blake  and  Bessie ;  and, 
if  she  noticed  any  unusual  devotion  of  man- 
ner or  earnestness  of  tone,  it  only  served  to 
excite  her  fears  that  Bessie  would  see  it  also, 
and  treasure  it  up  in  her  memory  for  future 
reference. 

AVhen  Bessie,  therefore,  fell  behind,  Inez 
slackened  her  pace  also ;  upon  which  the  for- 
mer  managed  to  increase  the  distance  betr.v-en 
them  still  farther. 

"  Bessie,"  said  Inez,  stopping  short  and 
waiting  for  her  to  come  up,  "  I'm  afraid  you 


^1 


VILLEXEUVE. 


n 


ivecn  herself  and 
ly  friendly  cbar- 
jiight  very  much 
acy  was  shocked 
emcnts,  but  sho 
ent  them.  She 
0,  so  as  to  keep 
every  such  occa- 
h  a  point  of  re- 
more  unpleasant 
At  length  Inez 
it  rose,  and,  call- 
□e  had  taken  up 
rned  to  the  lov- 
away,  she  waited 

m  air  of  demurest 
made  Inez  laugh 
ing.  As  she  came 
'prccating  glance, 
h  shyness,  walked 
he  others,  but  on 
Inez  gradually 
)on  Bessie  allowed 

;ed  by  Blake,  who 
by  the  joy  of  the 
;  so  covert  as  Bes- 

fact,  he  felt  quite 
g  away,  and  allow- 
ill  to  himself.  Thia 

showing,  and  this 
ICC  and  embarrass- 
n  of  a  young  lady 
lent  lover  is  never 
ment  when  specta- 
e  spectator  is  ono 
to  be  a  mereilesa 
g  to  the  light  the 
s  young  lady  afore- 
m  that  the  einbar- 
titolerable.  So  it 
ittention  was  thus 

and  Bessie ;  and, 
1  devotion  of  man- 
;,  it  only  served  to 
Q  would  see  it  also, 
memory  for  future 

e,  fell  behind,  Inez 
ipon  which  the  for- 
ic  distance  betr.tien 

stopping  short  and 
p,  "  I'm  afraid  you 


must  be  fatigued  after  your  journey  yester- 
day." 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,  Inez  dearest,"  said  Bessie, 
with  a  smile.  "  Not  at  all.  I  am  watching 
something  that  is  awfully  amusiiig.  Go  on. 
I'll  join  you  as  soon  as — as  it  is  advisable." 

Upon  this  Inez  turned  away  in  despair, 
and  walked  thus  with  Blake  back  to  the  ho- 
tel, while  Bessie  followed  at  a  little  dis- 
tance. 

The  hotel  stood  facing  the  water.  In 
front  of  it  was  a  portico.  At  this  poi  lioo 
stood  an  elderly  gentleman,  whose  appear- 
ance had  in  it  much  that  would  arrest  the 
attention  of  the  most  casual  observer.  lie 
was  a  man  of  medium  height,  and  might  have 
been  about  fifty  years  of  age,  yet  there  was  an 
air  of  decrepitude  about  him  which  must 
have  been  caused  by  some  other  tiling  than 
his  fifty  years.  He  looked  as  though  he 
might  once  have  been  portly,  and  that  too 
not  very  long  ago ;  but  now  the  ample  out- 
line of  his  frame  had  receded  somewhat,  and 
an  air  of  looseness  was  thus  given  to  his  fig- 
ure. His  hair  was  quite  gray  ;  his  face  was 
Btill  full,  but  every  trace  of  color  had  gone 
from  it.  He  stood  on  the  portico,  leaning 
heavily  against  the  base  of  a  pillar,  and  his 
face  was  turned  toward  the  water. 

It  was  this  face,  and  this  alone,  that  gave 
this  man  his  striking  appearance.  It  was 
no  common  face.  It  was  pale,  ghastly  pale, 
in  fact,  and  the  flesh  which  had  once  rounded 
its  outlines  had  shrunk  away,  and  now  hung 
loosely  in  folds.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
vacancy,  with  a  far-off,  abstracted  look.  It 
was  not  the  lake,  or  the  mountains,  or  any 
material  scens,  that  he  was  looking  at.  The 
placid  water  and  the  towering  heights  were 
reflected  on  his  retina,  but  had  no  place  in 
his  thoughts.  There  was  trouble  in  that 
face,  deep,  perplexed,  and  bewildered ;  and 
he  who  had  thus  come  fortli  to  gaze  upon  the 
face  of  Nature,  presented  his  own  face  to  the 
gaze  of  his  feilow-man,  and  showed  there 
sometliing  so  woe-worn,  so  tragic  in  its  som- 
bre gloom,  so  full  of  despair,  that  it  seemed 
as  if  the  traces  of  crime,  or  of  a  ruined  life, 
were  marked  ujion  it. 

Tlie  ladies  and  their  companion  walked 
toward  the  hotel,  and  saw  the  old  man, 
though  they  were  not  yet  near  enough  to  see 
his  face. 

"  Papa  is  down,"  said  Inez. 

"  Yes,"  said  Blake.     "  He  seems  to  be  en- 


joying  the  view.  I  feel  confident  that  this 
place  will  benefit  him." 

*'  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  so  1 " 

As  she  said  this,  a  footman  came  up  to  the 
portico.  He  had  come  from  a  house  not  far 
away.  He  had  a  letter  in  his  hand.  Tliia 
letter  he  handed  to  the  old  man.  He  took  it 
and  opened  it  hastily.  As  he  looked  at  it  a 
change  came  over  his  face,  AV'ith  a  quick  gest- 
ure he  crushed  the  letter  together  in  his  hand, 
and  looked  in  an  abstracted  way  all  around. 
Blake  and  the  ladies  were  near  enough  now 
foi  him  to  see  them,  but  he  did  not  notice 
them  at  all.  The  look  seemed  to  have  been 
an  instinct  blindly  obeyed.  He  then  turned 
his  back  to  the  street,  and,  opening  the  letter, 
stood  there  reading  it.  As  he  did  so,  he 
staggered  slightly,  and  one  hand  caught  at  the 
pillar  for  support. 

These  strange  actions,  and  the  singular 
attitude  of  the  old  man,  arrested  the  atten- 
tion of  Inez  and  Blake.  They  stopped,  and 
looked,  and  as  they  stopped  Bessie  came  up 
to  lliem. 

Suddenly  the  old  man  started.  He  stag- 
gered forward,  and  half  turned.  Thoy  were 
near  enough  now  to  see  his  face  plainly.  Up- 
on that  face  they  saw  a  wild  look  of  terror— 
a  look  such  as  a  drowning  man  may  give 
while  seeking  for  help. 

Bessie  caught  Inez  by  the  arm. 

"  Look !  Oh,  do  look  at  your  papa,  Inez 
dear ! "  she  cried.  "  Something's  the  mat- 
ter." 

There  was  no  need  to  tell  Inez  this.  She 
had  seen  it,  but  so  great  was  her  horror,  that 
she  had  stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  mute  and 
motionless.  But,  as  Bessie  spoke,  Blake 
started  off  at  a  run  toward  the  portico. 

If  he  anticipated  what  was  about  to  hap- 
pen, he  was  too  late.  Before  Blake  had  gone 
a  half-dozen  steps,  the  old  man  gave  a  deep 
groan,  and,  suddenly  collapsing,  sank  down 
senseless.  At  that  moment  Blake  reached 
him.  The  next  instant  a  dozen  servants  had 
arrived  at  the  spot.  Then  Inez  came  flying 
up  with  a  pale  face,  wild  with  alarm.  The 
sight  that  met  her  eyes  could  not  lessen  that 
alarm  one  whit.  That  prostrate  figure — that 
head  swaying  loosely  as  they  raised  him  up, 
those  nerveless  hands,  those  staring  eyes, 
those  venerable  hairs  soiled  with  dust — all 
this  only  served  to  intensify  her  fears.  Un- 
accustomed  to  scenes  like  these,  she  lost  all 
presence  of  mind,  and,  clasping  her  hands 


J I 


22 


AX   OPEX  QUESTIOX. 


in  despair,  slic  watched  tlio  serrantg  with 
white  lipa  and«stanng  eyes,  ns  they  raised  the 
senseless  form  and  bore  it  into  the  house,  and 
■up  the  stairs  to  his  chamber. 

Hero  Ulake  sent  oway  all  the  servants  ex- 
cept one.  lie  tried  to  urge  Inez  to  go  also, 
but  she  refused.  Thereupon  he  devoted  him- 
self to  the  care  of  his  patient,  and  sought  in 
all  possible  ways  to  resuscitate  him.  An 
hour  passed  away,  and,  at  the  end  of  that 
time,  there  was  little  change  perceptible.  He 
■was  breathing,  however,  and  he  had  closed 
his  eyes.  Tliose  were  encouraging  signs,  but 
the  stupor  yet  remained,  and  it  did  not 
seem  as  though  he  could  be  roused  out  of 
this. 

Several  hours  more  passed,  and  mid-day 
came.  Bbke  now  made  one  more  eftbrt  to 
induce  Inez  to  leave. 

"  I  assure  you,  Miss  Wyverne,"  said  he, 
fcirnestly,  "  tliat  your  father  is  now  doing  as 
■well  as  can  bo  expected  under  the  circum- 
Btancoa.  These  sudden  shocks  are  very  much 
to  be  dreaded,  but  in  this  case  the  worst,  I 
hope,  is  passed.  You  see  him  now — he  is 
Bleeping.  It  may,  perhaps,  benefit  him  in  the 
end.  lie  has  not  had  mucli  sleep  of 
late." 

Blake  spoke  this  as  the  man,  and  not  as 
the  doctor,  because  he  wished  to  give  Inez 
some  hope,  and  Inez  grasped  at  this  hope 
which  Avas  held  out. 

"  Sleep  ?  "  she  siiid.  "  Yes,  it  is— it  must 
be  sleep — but,  oh,  if  he  had  only  waked  once 
—just  to  spe,ik  one  word  ! " 

"  II»  will  wiike  in  time.  Rut  lot  us  be 
patient.  Do  not  let  us  wnke  liini  now.  Miss 
\Vyvert>f.  And  now  will  you  not  try  to  get 
a  little  "est  for  yourself?  Let  me  entreat  you 
as — as — ah — your  medical  adviser — to — to 
take  caif?  of  yourself." 

Inez  nt  length  allowed  herself  to  be  per- 
suaded to  retire,  and  sought  her  own  room. 
Here  Dossie  came  to  her,  and  held  a  letter  in 
her  hand. 

"In^'z,  darling,"  said  she,  "  isn't  this  aw- 
ful? You  know  your  poor,  dear  papa  was 
readinp;  a  letter  when  ho  fainted.  .  It  was  on 
the  portico.  Ho  let  it  fall.  I  saw  it  and 
picked  it  up.  This  is  it.  i'ou  had  better  read 
it,  and  perhaps  you  can  find  out  the  cause  of 
all  this." 

With  those  words  she  handed  to  Inez  the 
letter  wliicli  the  old  man  had  boon  reading. 

Inez  took  it,  and  read  the  following : 


"  Faius. 

"  My  dear  IIennioau  :  I  am  sorry  you 
are  not  the  man  you  used  to  be,  for  you  need 
all  your  strength  now.  The  event  which  wo 
have  all  along  dreaded  as  barely  possible  has 
at  last  come  to  pass.  15.  M.  is  alive  1  Worse 
— he  has  come  back.  I  have  seen  him  with 
my  own  eyes  in  Rome.  He  has  not  seen  me. 
I  have  learned  that,  after  he  has  attended  to 
his  ecclesiastical  business,  he  intends  to  visit 
you.  Fortunately,  you  are  out  of  England. 
Would  it  not  be  well  for  you  to  go  into  hid- 
ing for  a  time — in  Russia,  or  the  East,  or,  bet- 
ter still — America  ? 

"I  have  just  arrived  here,  and  leave  to- 
night for  London,  on  important  business.  I 
hope  soon  to  see  yo>i.  You  ;.,  '.  better  send 
away  those  girls  at  once.  Above  all,  you  must 
get  rid  of  that  boy.  You  were  mad  to  en- 
courage him.  His  mind  has  been  poisoned 
by  his  mother.  Depend  upon  it,  he  will  ruin 
you.  At  all  events  send  him  oft' at  once,  and 
get  Inez  out  of  the  way.  H.  M.  will  hunt  you 
up,  and  find  you,  uidess  you  lly  out  of  his 
reach.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  would  be  ad- 
visable, if  possible,  to  get  tip  a  well-concoct- 
ed ikath — so  as  to  tiirow  him  ofl:'  your  track. 
Think  of  this. 

"  I  hope  to  see  you  before  a  week. 
"In  great  haste, 

"  Yours, 

"Kevin  Maorath." 


CHAPTER  VI. 


IS     IT     D  K  I.  I  H  1  U  M  ? 


To  Inrz,  this  extraordinary  letter  was  ut- 
terly uninteiligihlo,  an<l  yet  terrible  on  ac- 
count of  the  dark  and  impenetrnble  mystery 
in  which  it  was  shrouiled.  She  had  road  it 
with  breathlcis  interest,  yot  not  until  sho 
readied  the  end  was  she  anare  of  the  fact 
that  she  was  reading  that  whioli  had  never 
been  intended  for  her  eyes,  or  fVir  any  human 
eyes  except  those  of  Heniii;;ar  Wyverne  him- 
self. The  deed  was  one  which  she  felt  to  bo 
dishonorable  in  itself,  yet  siie  could  not  blame 
herself.  She  had  read  it  solely  out  of  a  pure 
and  generous  impulse — a  desire  to  learn  the 
cause  of  this  sudden  blow  whicli  had  fallen 
upon  her  fath'-r.  She  had  read  it  witliout 
hesitation,  because  she  had  never  imagined 
that  around  that  iionored  father  could  cling 


1), 


IS  IT   DELIRIUM? 


23 


I: 


"  Psnia, 
I  am  sorry  you 
be,  for  you  need 

eveut  which  wo 
rely  possible  has 
is  alive  I  Worse 
e  seen  him  with 
has  not  seen  me. 

has  attended  to 
e  intends  to  visit 
out  of  England, 
u  to  go  into  hid- 
thc  East,  or,  bet- 


ore,  and  leave  to- 

tnnt  business.  I 
'.  better  send 
Lbovc  all,  you  must 

were  mad  to  en- 
as  been  poisoned 
ion  it,  he  will  ruin 
m  oft"  at  once,  and 
U.  31.  will  hunt  you 

ou  fly  out  of  his 

t  it  would  bo  ad- 

up  a  well-eoncoct- 

lim  off  your  track. 

ore  a  week. 


Kevin  Magrath.'* 


VI. 

HUM? 

nary  letter  was  ut- 
•et  terrible  on  nc- 
pcnetrnblc  mystery 
She  liad  read  it 
yet   not  until   sho 

aware  of  tlie  fact 
;  whieh  had  never 
,  or  for  any  human 
i;;ar  Wyvorne  him- 
hleh  sho  felt  to  bo 
he  could  not  blame 
olely  out  of  a  pure 
desire  to  learn  tho 
IT  whieh  had  f«llen 
111  rend  it  without 
111  never  imagined 

father  could  cling 


I 


any  secret  tliat  had  to  be  veiled  from  her 
eyes  or  from  any  eyes.  She  had  read  it,  and 
the  deed  for  good  or  for  evil  was  done  beyond 
recall,  nor  could  she  forget  ono  single  word 
of  all  that  ill-omened  and  evil-boding  letter. 

As  she  had  read  it,  Bessie  had  stood 
watching  her ;  and  now,  as  Inez  looked  up, 
she  saw  her  friend's  eyes  fixed  on  her  witli 
sharp,  eager  scrutiny.  The  moment  that  Bes- 
sie caught  the  glance  of  Inez,  she  turned  her 
eyes  away ;  not  so  soon,  however,  but  that 
the  latter  could  read  the  meaning  that  was 
in  them.  By  the  expression  of  Bessie's  face, 
and  the  look  that  was  in  her  eyes,  Inez  saw 
plainly  that  she,  too,  must  have  read  the  let- 
ter ;  that  she,  too,  had  been  startled  by  its 
mfsterious  meaning,  and  was  now  waiting  to 
SCO  the  effect  produced  npon  her.  At  this 
discovery  an  indignant  feeling  at  once  arose, 
which,  however,  in  a  few  moments,  was 
checked.  For,  after  all,  how  could  she  blame 
her?  Sho  knew  Bessie's  thoughtless  and 
wayward  nature,  her  inquisitiveness,  and  her 
impulsive  ways  ;  she  could  easily  understand 
how  she,  too,  could  read  it  with  the  same 
thoughtless  haste  that  had  characterized  her 
own  perusal.  So  iho  checked  the  sharp 
words  tliat  arose  to  her  lips,  and  merely  re- 
marked : 

"  It's  some  business  of  poor  papa's.  I 
dion't  understand  it,  and  I  ought  not  to  have 
read  it." 

She  then  flung  herself  upon  the  sofa,  and 
turned  her  face  to  the  wall.  Whereupon  Bes- 
sie softly  loft  tho  room. 

Left  thus  to  herself,  Inez,  as  she  lay  on 
the  sofa,  became  a  prey  to  all  the  thoughts 
which  that  letter  was  calculated  to  create. 
The  more  she  thought  about  it,  the  less  was 
she  able  to  understand  it ;  but  the  secret  of 
tl.e  letter,  though  impenetrable,  was  some- 
thing which  she  could  not  avoid  thinking 
upon,  and,  though  tho  full  moaning  was  be- 
yond her  conjecture,  there  were  a  few  plain 
and  very  ugly  facts  which  stood  forth  clearly 
and  unmistakably. 

First  of  all,  sho  saw  that  there  was  some 
one  living  of  whom  her  father  stood  in  mor- 
tal dread,  named  here  as  B.  M.  Tho  dread 
of  this  mysterious  man  was  evidently  no  new 
thing,  lie  had  been  absent  long,  but  they 
had  always  considered  his  return  possible. 
They  had  hoped  for  his  death,  but  found  that 
he  was  alive.  This  B.  M.  was  in  Rome.  lie 
was  on  his  way  to  England,  to  see  her  father. 


Secondly,  so  great  was  the  terror  that 
attended  upon  the  presence  of  this  B.  M, 
that  the  correspondent's  first  suggestion  to 
her  father  was  instant  and  immediate  flight, 
even  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth — 
Russia,  the  East,  America. 

Thirdly,  this  correspondent  urged  him  to 
got  rid  of  the  girh.  Tho  girls  !  What  girls  ? 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  she  herself  and 
Bessie  were  meant,  and  herself  more  par- 
ticularly, since  greater  emphasis  was  laid  on 
her  name.  This  dark  secret  affected  her 
then,  but  how  ? 

Fourthly,  who  was  "  the  boy  ?  "  About 
this  Inez  could  have  no  doubt  whatever, 
"  Tho  boy  "  must  be  Dr.  Blake,  To  no  other 
could  the  term  "  encouragement "  apply.  He 
had  certainly  been  "  encouraged."  Though 
an  acquaintance  of  no  very  long  standing,  her 
father  had  manifested  for  Dr.  Blake  a  regard 
which  was  wonderful,  and  quite  unaccount- 
able. This  must  be  the  "encouragement" 
of  which  the  letter  spoke.  But  who  was  the 
boy's  mother,  and  how  had  she  "poisoned" 
his  mind?  How  was  it  that  Dr.  Blake  could 
ever  be  tho  ruin  of  her  father?  Had  he 
any  connection  with  those  dark  events  of 
the  past?  Dr.  Blake  bad  always  seemed  the 
most  open,  frank,  and  transparent  nature  in 
the  world ;  and  she  could  not  understand 
how  in  his  breast  there  could  Inrk  the  knowl- 
edge  of  any  secret  that  could  make  him  able 
to  ruin  her  father,  even  if  he  were  capable  of 
wishing  it. 

Fifthly,  this  correspondent  hinted  that  a 
pretended  death  might  be  advisable.  Such  a 
hint  seemed  to  Inez  the  most  terrible  thing  in 
the  whole  letter.  It  revealed  an  abyss  into 
which  she  dared  not  allow  her  thoughts  to 
venture.  What  terrors  must  cling  to  the 
past  life  of  her  father  when  there  impended 
over  him  a  danger  so  great  that  he  coukl  only 
escape  it  by  instant  flight  or  pretended  death  t 
Alas  I  as  her  father  now  was,  if  death  was  to 
be  thought  of,  it  might  be  only  too  real. 

Again,  this  thing  of  terror,  this  mysterious 
"  B.  M.,"  who  was  he  ?  What  was  meant  by 
his  "  ecclesiastical "  business  ?  Could  he  be 
a  priest  ?  It  must  be  so.  Who  else  but  a 
priest  could  have  ecclesiastical  business  at 
Rome  ? 

And,  finally,  who  was  this  correspondent 
himself?  He  called  himself  "  Kevin  Magrath." 
Could  it  be  a  real  name?  It  was  evidently 
an  Irish  name.    Sho  had  never  heard  of  it 


if: 


i  li 


24 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


before  in  all  her  life.  The  sound  was  utterly 
unfamiliar.  Whoever  he  was,  he  seemed  to 
lead  a  roving  life,  going  from  Rome  to  Paris, 
and  from  Paris  to  London,  and  promising  to 
come  here  to  Villeneuve.  Whoever  he  was, 
he  must  be  an  old  friend  of  her  father's,  and 
an  associate  in  this  dark  mystery.  With 
him,  too,  her  father  must  have  kept  up  a  con- 
stant correspondence,  for  how  else  could  this 
Kevin  Magrath  know  his  present  address  to 
be  such  an  obscure  place  as  Villeneuve  ? 

She  thought  for  a  moment  of  asking  Bes- 
Bie  about  this  man,  but  the  next  moment  she 
dismissed  the  thought.  She  felt  an  invincible 
repugnance  to  making  one  like  Bessie — or 
any  one,  in  fact — a  confidante  of  her  present 
feelings.  This  secret  seemed  a  dislionor  to 
her  father ;  and  Bessie's  knowledge  of  the 
existence  of  any  such  secret  was  of  itself 
most  disagreeable  to  her.  Instead,  there- 
fore, of  saying  any  thing  to  her  friend  about 
it,  she  saw  that  it  would  be  far  better  to  hide 
her  feelings  from  her,  and  make  it  appear,  if 
possible,  thot  she  thought  nothing  of  it  what- 
ever. By  so  doing,  she  might  induce  Bessie 
to  suppose  that  it  was  of  no  importance. 
This  she  hoped,  but  tlie  recollection  of  tliat 
look  which  she  had  encountered  from  Bessie 
made  her  suspect  that  behind  all  her  friend's 
apparent  volatility  and  frivolity  there  were 
other  qualities  of  a  graver  character — quali- 
ties, too,  which  might  prove  formidable  in 
the  future  if  it  should  ever  happen  that  Bes- 
sie's interests  should  be  blended  with  those 
of  the  enemies  of  her  father. 

The  impenetrable  secret  thus  baffled  Inez 
completely,  and  there  was  nothing  left  but  to 
wait  for  the  disclosures  of  the  future,  and 
bear  the  intermediate  suspense  as  best  she 
could. 

This  Inez  resolved  to  do,  and  her  resolu- 
tion was  made  easy  by  the  situation  of  Mr. 
Wyverne.  He  lay,  as  he  had  been  pros- 
trated, without  much  change,  upon  tlie 
last  verge  of  life,  motionless,  his  breathing 
short  and  quick,  opening  his  eyes  wildly  at 
times,  murmuring  incessantly  to  himself,  and 
all  the  while  his  heart  throbbing  fast  and 
furious.  He  was  not  senseless  now,  for  he 
could  answer  when  he  was  addressed,  but  he 
seemed  to  be  the  prey  of  the  most  agonizing 
',  elings,  the  torment  of  which  made  him  un- 
observant of  things  around  him. 

Inez  now  watched  over  him  incessantly, 
and  the  doctor  also  was  equally  devoted.     He 


did  not  seek  to  couceal  the  truth  from  her. 
The  danger  was  extreme.  Ho  know  it,  and  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  deceive  her.  Slie, 
on  her  part,  being  thus  forced  so  constantly 
into  the  society  of  Blake,  and  with  her  secret 
gnawing  at  her  heart,  more  than  once  tliought 
of  asking  him  about  it ;  but  no  sooner  }iad 
the  thought  came  than  it  was  repelled.  What- 
ever might  be  her  feelings  toward  him,  she 
saw  that  this  was  clearly  a  case  in  which  ho 
could  be  of  no  assistance  to  her.  She  could 
not  show  that  letter  to  one  who,  after  all,  was 
a  stranger  in  a  certain  sense.  She  could  not 
ask  his  advice  in  a  case  where  a  father's  se- 
cret and  a  father's  honor  were  involved. 

Day  after  day  passed,  and  there  was  no 
change.  One  day  Inez  implored  Blake  to  tell 
her  the  worst. 

"  I  can't  bear  this  suspense,"  said  she.  "  I 
expect  tlie  worst,  the  very  worst,  and  I  try  to 
make  up  my  mind  to  it ;  but  I  should  like  to 
know  if  there  may  be  any  ground  for  hope." 

"  Miss  Wyverne,"  said  tlie  doctor,  sadly, 
"  while  there's  life,  there's  hope." 

"I  know — I  know,"  said  Inez,  "  that  old 
formula,  used  to  disguise  the  worst  intelli- 
gence." 

Blake  sighed,  and  looked  at  her  compas- 
sionately. 

"  Oh,  how  I  wish,"  said  he,  "  that  I  could 
spare  you  this !" 

"  You  have  no  hope,  then  ?  "  wailed  forth 
Inez,  looking  at  him  with  awful  eyes. 

Blake  returned  her  glance  with  a  mournful 
look,  and  in  silence. 

Inez  had  hoped  for  some  faint  encourage- 
ment, and  this  silence  was  almost  too  much. 
But,  by  a  strong  effort,  she  controlled  her- 
self. 

"  Tell  me  all,"  she  said,  in  a  scarce  audible 
voice.    "  Let  me  know  all." 

"Agitation,"  said  Blake,  solemnly  and 
slowly,  "is  fatal.  If  I  could  see  any  hope  of 
saving  him  from  this — if  I  could  only  gain  con- 
trol over  his  thoughts  !  But  there  is  something 
on  his  mind  always.  He  never  sleeps.  Ho 
eats  nothing.  Opiates  have  no  effect.  It  is 
his  mind.  There  is  trouble,  and  it  overwhelms 
him.  If  he  should  sleep,  his  dreams  would 
be  worse  than  his  waking  thoughts.  I  can- 
not '  minister  to  a  mind  diseased.'  " 

At  this,  Inez  went  away  to  her  own  room 
and  wept. 

So  Wyverne  lay,  struggling  with  the  dark 
secret  that  was  over  his  soul,  murmuring 


IS  IT   DELIRIUM? 


u 


ruth  from  her. 

■    V 

know  it,  and  he 

1 

cive  her.    She, 

'1 

1  so  constantly 

with  licr  secret 

an  once  tliought 

no  sooner  }iad 

repelled.  What- 

oward  him,  she 

.se  in  which  lie 

icr.     She  could 

10,  after  all,  was 

She  could  not 

.^ 

;re  a  father's  se- 

^v 

e  involved. 

d  there  was  no 

icd  Blake  to  tell 

:■■. 

se,"  said  she.  "  I 

■'"- 

orst,  and  I  try  to 

I  should  like  to 

ound  for  hope." 

":i 

he  doctor,  sadly, 

•J 

ope." 

Inez,  "  that  old 

the  worst  intelli- 

A 

1  at  her  compas- 

:m 

lie,  "  that  I  could 

n  ?  "  wailed  forth 

ivful  eyes. 

e  with  a  mournful 

m 

i  faint  encourage- 
almost  too  much, 
e  controlled  her- 

n  a  scarce  audible 

;e,  solemnly  and 
d  see  any  hope  of 
)uld  only  gain  con- 
there  is  something 
never  sleeps.  He 
3  no  effect.  It  is 
md  it  overwhelms 
liis  dreams  would 
thoughts.  I  can- 
;ascd.' " 
to  her  own  room 

ing  with  the  dark 
soul,  murmuring 


.1 


words  that  were  unintelligible  to  those  beside 
him,  with  that  in  his  mind  which  was  a  lior- 
ror  by  night  and  by  day.  Thus  a  week 
passed,  and  during  this  time  he  grew  worse 
and  worse.  Of  this  tiierc  was  no  doubt.  The 
doctor  saw  it.     Inez  knew  it. 

At  length  one  day  came  when  ho  opened 
his  eyes,  and  fixed  them  with  a  glassy  stare 
upon  Inez,  who,  as  usual,  was  sitting  at  his 
bedside. 

"  Papa,  dear,"  said  she,  in  a  choking 
voice. 

"  Who — are — you  ?  "  were  the  words  that 
came  with  a  gasp  from  the  sick  man  on  the 
bed. 

Inez  shuddered. 

She  took  his  hand  tenderly  in  hers,  and, 
bending  over  him,  she  said  : 

"Don't  you  know  me,  papa  dear — your 
daughter — your  child — your  Inez  ?  " 

Mr.  AVyverne  frowned,  and  snatched  his 
hard  away. 

"  I  have  no  daughter,"  he  ga.^fped.  "  You 
■are  not  mine.  You  are  his.  lie  is  coming 
for  you — for  you  and — for — vengeance  I  Jle 
is  coming.     lie  is  coming.    lie  is  coming — " 

A  groan  ended  this,  but  the  sick  man 
went  on  murmuring,  in  a  sing-song  way,  like 
some  horrible  chant,  the  words,  "  Jle  is  com- 
ing !  Jfe  is  coming  1  Jle  is  coming  !  lie  is 
coming  1 " 

A  cold  shudder  passed  through  Inez.  She 
drew  back  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 
Was  this  real  ?  Did  he  mean  it  ?  What 
horror  was  this  ? 

Blake  had  heard  all,  and  had  seen  her 
distress.    He  bent  over  her  and  whispered  : 

"  Don't  be  distressed  at  what  he  says.  He 
don't  know  you.    It's  his  delirium." 

The  whisper  seemed  to  attract  the  attrn- 
tion  of  the  sick  man.  He  turned  his  eyes  till 
they  rested  upon  Blake's  face.  His  own  ex- 
pression changed.  There  came  a  gentle  smile 
upon  his  wan  features ;  he  sighed  ;  and  then 
he  reached  forth  liis  hand  faintly. 

Blake  saw  this,  and  took  his  hand  won- 
deringly. 

"  Basil ! "  said  Mr.  Wyverne,  in  a  soft, 
low  voice,  full  of  a  strange,  indescribable 
tenderness,  "  Basil — is  your — your  mother 
still  alive  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Blake,  full  of  amazement — 
Mr.  Wyverne  had  called  hira  by  his  Christian 
name ! 

The  sick  man  clo.sed  his   eyes.     There 


were  tears  in  them  —  they  trickled  slowly 
down.  Inez  still  sat  with  her  face  buried  in 
her  hands.  Blake  wiped  those  tears  away, 
and  waited  to  hear  what  might  be  said,  with 
all  his  soul  full  of  wonder  and  awe,  and  a 
certain  fearful  expectation. 

"  Basil,"  said  Mr.  Wyverne,  opening  his 
eyes  again,  and  fastening  them  with  the  same 
look  upon  Blake,  speaking  faintly  and  wea- 
rily, and  with  frequent  hesitation,  "  I  dare 
not  tell  you — ask  her  to  tell  you — all — alt- 
all." 

Once  more  liis  thoughts  wandered,  but  he 
still  clung  to  Blake's  hand,  and  would  not  let 

it  go- 
After  an  •■'iterval,  he  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  Blu.. 

"  Kiss  me — Basil,"  he  said. 

At  this  Blake  bent  down  and  kisseS  the 
forehead  of  the  sick  man — damp  and  cold  as 
with  the  chill-dew  of  death. 

Not  one  word  of  all  this  had  been  lost  on 
Inez,  and  at  these  last  words  she  raised  her- 
self,  and  saw  through  her  tears  what  was 
done.  Full  of  wonder,  and  deeply  wounded 
also  at  tiie  neglect  with  which  she  was 
treated,  she  sat  there  a  prey  to  the  deepest 
grici.  Blake  saw  this,  and,  as  the  sick  man 
again  closed  his  eyes,  he  murmured  in  hei 
ear: 

"/<'«  his  delirium." 

The  sick  man  again  opened  his  eyes ;  they 
rested  upon  Blake  as  before,  and  then  wan- 
dered toward  Inez,  whose  pale  face  was  turned 
toward  him,  and  whose  eyes  were  fixed  en- 
treatingly  upon  him,  as  though  seeking  for 
some  look  of  love. 

He  looked  at  her  mildly,  and  then,  turning 
his  eyes  to  Blake,  there  came  over  his  face  a 
smile  of  strange  sweetness. 

"  You— love— her— Basil  ?  " 

These  words  came  from  him  faintly.  As 
he  said  this,  the  face  of  Inez  flamed  up  with 
a  sudden  and  violent  flush.  Blake  said 
nothing,  but  pressed  his  hand.  The  sick 
man  took  Blake's  hand  in  his  own  left  hand, 
and  reached  out  his  right  hand  feebly,  look- 
ing at  Inez.  She  took  his  hand  in  hers,  not 
knowing  Avhat  ho  wished,  but  still  hoping  for 
some  word  of  love.  He  drew  her  hand  tow- 
ard hira,  and  joined  it  to  that  of  Blake's, 
pressing  the  two  together  between  his  feeble 
palms.  Then  ho  looked  at  them  both,  with 
that  same  strange,  sweet  smile  on  his  face. 

"  Jly  children  !  my  children  ! "  he  mur- 


>l  ■ 


S6 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


I 

ii 

■i         II! 


Ill 


mured.  "  My  cliilili'rn  ! "  he  continued,  after  a 
pause,  "  you  will  love  one  anotber.  You  will 
— love  licr — Hasil — and — make  licr — yours — 
promise !  "  and  he  looked  earnestly  at  Ulake. 

To  Inez  all  this  was  exquisitely  painl'ul, 
and  niako  did  not  know  what  to  say, 

"  Swear,"  said  the  sick  man. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Jilake,  in  a  low  voice. 

Mr.  Wyvcrnc  gave  a  sigh  of  satisfaction, 
and  lay  for  some  time  exhausted,  but  still 
holding  their  hands.  Once  more  ho  ral- 
lied. 

"Basil,"  said  he,  "I  cannot  tell  you — 
what  is  on — my  mind — dare  not — you  shall 
know  all — your  mother — ask  her — you  will 
forgive  me,  Basil — my  son." 

Son  I  that  word  had  a  strange  sound,  but 
it  seemed  to  mean  son-in-law,  and  thus  they 
both  understood  it.  But  in  the  mind  of  Inez 
this  declaration  interwcaved  itself  with  other 
thoughts  which  had  been  called  up  by  that 
mysterious  letter. 

"  Your  mother,"  continued  the  sick  man, 
looking  at  Blake,  "will  tell  you  all  —  all. 
Swear  that  you — forgive  me." 

"  I  swear,"  said  Blake,  willing  to  say  any 
thing  which  might  humor  the  sick  man's  fan- 
cies. 

"  And  you — you,"  continued  Mr.  Wyverne, 
turning  his  glassy  eyes  toward  Inez  with  an 
agonized  look,  "you — Ji'is  daughter — you  will 
tell  all  to  him — that  I  repent — and  die — of — 
of — remorse ! " 

At  this  Inez  tore  her  hand  away,  and 
once  more  flung  herself  forward  in  an  agony 
of  grief. 

^' It's  his  dcUrlnm/"  whispered  the  doctor 
again.  These  words  restored  Inez.  It  was 
all  fancy,  she  thought.  It  was  not — no,  it 
could  not  be  the  truth. 

But  now  the  sick  man  seemed  utterly  ex- 
hausted. As  Inez  raised  herself  up,  and 
looked  at  him  once  more,  she  saw  that  a 
change  had  come  over  him,  and  that  change 
frightened  her. 

"  I'm  dying,"  he  gasped,  "  send  a  priest — 
a  priest ! " 

At  this  Blake  at  once  hurried  from  the 
room. 

He  did  not  have  to  go  far. 

There  was  a  priest  in  the  hotel.  lie  had 
arrived  the  night  before.  lie  had  come  from 
Italy,  and  was  on  his  way  to  Paris.  The  doc- 
tor had  heard  of  this,  and  went  at  once  in 
search  of  him.    The  priest  had  arrived  late, 


and  had  slept  late.    lie  was  just  dressed,  and 
thus  Ulake  found  hhn. 

lie  was  a  man  of  medium  stature,  with 
dark  complexion,  browned  by  exposure  to  the 
weather,  lie  had  piercing  black  eyes  and 
heavy  eyebrows.  His  jaw  was  square,  mas- 
sive, and  resolute ;  yet,  in  spite  of  all  this, 
the  face  was  one  full  of  mildness  and  gentle- 
ness— showing  a  strong  nature,  yet  a  kindly 
one — a  face  where  dwelt  the  signs  of  a  power 
which  might  achieve  any  purpose,  and  the  in- 
dications of  a  nat'irt  which  was  quick  to  sym- 
pathy, and  full  of  human  feeling.  His  framo 
was  erect  and  vi-orous.  His  hair  was  black, 
and  sprinkled  with  gray,  lie  could  not  bo 
over  fifty,  and  might  be  much  younger.  This 
was  the  man  that  Blake  found. 

The  priest  at  once  prepared  to  comply 
with  Blake's  request,  and  followed  him  to  the 
siek  man's  chamber.  As  ho  entered,  Inez 
shrank  out  of  sight,  and  retreated  to  her 
room,  waiting  there,  with  a  heart  full  of  de- 
spair, the  result  of  this  last  interview. 

Tlic  priest  took  no  notice  of  her.  IIiB 
eyes,  as  he  entered,  were  fixed  upon  the  bed 
whore  lay  the  man  who  had  sought  his  oiTices 
at  this  last  hour  o'  life. 

There  lay  Ilenr  igar  Wyvemc. 

A  great  change  had  passed  over  him  since 
the  morning  when  he  had  received  that  letter. 
Feeble  though  he  then  was,  there  still  might 
be  seen  in  him  some  remnant  of  his  former 
self,  something  that  might  show  what  he  once 
was ;  but  now  not  a  vestige  remained ;  the 
week's  illness  had  altered  him  so  greatly  that 
he  had  passed  beyond  the  power  of  recogni- 
tion ;  he  was  fearfully  emaciated ;  he  waa 
ghastly  pale ;  his  cheek-bones  protruded  ;  his 
eyes  were  deep-sunk ;  his  lips  were  drawn 
apart  over  his  teeth;  his  white  hair  was  tan- 
gled about  his  head,  and  short,  gray  biistles 
covered  his  once  smooth-shaven  chin.  Ho 
lay  there  muttering  to  himself  unintelligible 
things,  and  picking  aimlessly  at  the  bed- 
clothes. 

The  priest  approached.  Blake  stood  by 
the  door. 

The  priest  bent  over  the  sick  man,  and 
roused  him. 

Wyvemc  opened  his  glassy  eyes  and  fast- 
ened them  on  the  priest.  As  he  did  so,  there 
came  over  him  an  appalling  change. 

In  those  dull,  glassy  eyes  there  shone  the 
light  of  a  sudden  and  awful  recognition  ;  and, 
with  that  recognition,  there  was  a  look  of  ter- 


just  tlrcsBcd,  and 


'n 


in  stature,  with 

exposure  to  the 

black  eyes  and 

ivns  square,  mas- 

pito  of  all  this", 

Inesa  and  f^entle- 

ure,  yet  a  kindly 

signs  of  a  power 

pose,  and  the  in- 

13  quick  to  syra- 

cling.     Ilia  framo 

hair  was  black, 

lie  could  not  bo 

h  younger.    This 

hd. 

pared  to  comply 
llowcd  him  to  the 
he  entered,  Inez 
retreated  to  her 
heart  full  of  de- 
interview, 
tico  of  her.  His 
xed  upon  the  bed 
sought  his  offices 

veme. 

Bed  over  him  since 
eceived  that  letter. 
,  there  still  might 
lant  of  his  former 
show  what  he  once 
go  remained ;  tho 
lini  so  greatly  that 
power  of  recogni- 
naciated ;  he  was 
363  protrndcd ;  his 
lips  were  drawn 
hite  hair  wns  tan- 
short,  gray  bristles 
■shaven  chin.  Ho 
aself  unintelligible 
essly  at  the  bed- 
Blake  stood  by 
;hc  sick  man,  and 

assy  eyes  and  fast- 
As  ho  did  so,  there 
5  change. 

3S  there  shone  the 
I  recognition ;  and, 
;  was  a  look  of  ter- 


THE  GOLD  CRUCIFIX. 


n 


M 


ror  unapcnknblo,  of  horror  Intolerable.  Yet 
tliat  look  seemed  fagoiudted ;  It  could  not  bo 
withdrawn ;  it  was  fastened  on  the  faco  before 
him  in  one  tixed  gaze.  Suddenly,  and  with  a 
Rroiin,  ho  gave  a  convulsivo  Btiirt,  os  thout;ti 
ho  would  fly  from  that  which  cither  his  eyes 
or  his  wild  fancy  had  thus  presented  before 
him.  Hut  the  eftbrt  was  too  much.  His 
Htrcngth  WHS  gone,  This  was  its  Inat  effort. 
One  movement,  and  then  ho  fell  down. 

Ho  lay  motionless  now. 

Ulake  wtts  just  about  leavin;;  tho  room ; 
but  ho  saw  tlil-',  and  waited.  As  Wyverno 
fell,  ho  rushed  \ip  to  the  bedside  with  a  pale 
face.  He  looked  at  tho  form  which  lay  there, 
and  then  at  tho  priest.  Tho  priest  iooked 
witli  a  mournful  faco  at  the  figure  on  the 
bed. 

There  it  lay,  the  thin,  emaciated  frame 
from  which  tho  sotd  had  pone  !  That  horror 
which  had  been  the  latest  expression  of  those 
features  still  lurked  there ;  tho  eyes  stared  at 
tho  ceiling;  the  jaws  had  fallen. 

Blake  stooped  down  and  closed,  with  ten- 
der hands,  the  eyes  of  the  dead, 

"  I  have  como  too  late,"  said  the  priest,  in 
a  low  and  mournful  voice. 

"Tlio  delirium  has  lasted  for  a  week," 
said  Blake.  "  Ho  has  imagined  something 
terrible  in  you." 


CnAPTER  VII. 


THE    OOI.D    CnUCIFIX. 


Tnus  the  blow  had  fallen  at  last ;  and, 
though  Inez  had  tried  to  prepare  herself  for 
it,  she  felt  crushed  by  it  when  it  came.  For 
the  death  itself  she  might  have  been  ready ; 
it  was  not  the  mere  fact  of  bereavement,  not 
merely  the  sorrow  of  a  loving  daughter,  that 
now  overwhelmed  her.  It  was  something  far 
different  which  had  its  origin  in  the  circum- 
atances  that  had  preceded  and  immediately 
accompanied  his  death.  Already  she  had  felt 
sore  distressed  and  perplexed  by  the  terrible 
possibilities  that  had  been  hinted  at  in  that 
nnintelligible  letter,  and  she  had  tried  to  turn 
her  thoughts  away  from  so  painful  a  subject. 
In  vain.  The  circumstances  arotmd  her  had 
not  allowed  her  to  do  so.  The  sick  man  him- 
self forced  tbem  upon  her ;  and,  in  addition 
to  all  that  she  had  already  learned,  ho  had 
uttered  words  most  terrible  even  to  hoar  as 


delirious  ravings,   but  which,   if  true,  told 
things  that  could  not  bo  endured. 

Let  ns  See,  now,  what  tho  circumstanccB 
were  that  immediately  followed  Mr.  Wyvernc's 
death. 

Inez  had  left  tho  sick  man's  chamber  as 
tho  priest  entered.  Sim  had  gone  at  once  to 
her  own  room.  She  had  flung  herself  upon 
her  couch,  with  her  face  buried  in  tho  pillows, 
recalling  every  incident  in  that  terrible  scene 
wliich  sho  had  just  witnessed.  That  her  hand 
should  be  joined  to  the  hand  of  Basil  Blako 
might,  under  ditferent  circumstances,  havo 
had  in  it  nothing  distasteful  to  her  feelings- 
but,  at  this  time,  and  under  such  conditions, 
it  had  be(5n  simply  frightful.  For  her  father 
had  struck  her  down  by  the  terrors  of  the 
revelation  that  he  had  made;  he  had  installed 
another  in  her  place  next  his  heart,  and  it 
was  only  through  the  meditmi  of  this  sup- 
planter  and  usurper  of  her  place  that  ho  re- 
ceived her  back  to  his  love. 

Her  falher  had  said  that  sho  was  not  hia 
daughter.  This  was  the  one  thought  that 
now  stood  precMiiinent  in  her  mind.  And  was 
this  decliration  the  act  of  a  sane  man,  or  was 
it  the  raving  of  nn  insane  man  ?  Pr.  Blake 
had  insisted,  over  and  over  again,  that  it  waa 
delirium.  Did  Dr.  Blake  really  believe  so 
himself,  or  had  he  said  that  merely  to  console 
her  for  tho  time? 

How  coidd  she  answer  sueh  ((uestions  as 
these  ? 

In  the  midst  of  these  thoughts  she  sud- 
denly became  aware  of  a  certain  awful  hush — 
a  solemn  stillness  through  all  the  house.  It 
was  as  though  all  in  the  house  had  sunultane- 
ously  stopped  brea tiling. 

Something  had  happened. 

There  was  only  one  tiling,  ns  Inez  knew 
well,  which  could  account  for  this — tho  one 
thing  toward  which  her  fearful  soul  had  been 
looking.  But  it  was  doubly  terrible  now.  It 
was  too  soon.  She  expected  to  see  him  again. 
Her  last  hope  would  be  that  he  might  take 
back  all  those  words.  AVhat  if  he  had  left 
her  now  forever?  What  if  his  last  worJa  to 
her  should  be  nothing  more  than  those  appal- 
ling onc.s  which  she  had  just  heard. 

She  started  to  her  feet,  and  stood  with 
her  hands  clasped  together,  her  limbs  rigid, 
her  pallid  face  turned  to  the  door  in  awful  ex- 
pectation, her  eyes  staring  wildly,  her  ears 
strained  to  catch  tho  slightest  sound.  The 
silence  continued  for  what  seemed  to  her  a 


ii 


!  i 


28 


AX   OPEN"   QUKSTIOX. 


fearful  length  of  time.  At  lust  there  were 
footsteps  ill  the  hall.  She  wished  to  go  and 
make  inquiries,  and  put  an  cid  to  her  sus- 
pense; but  she  could  not  move. 

Then  there  came  a  light  knock  at  the 
door.  Inez  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not. 
The  handle  was  turned.  The  door  opened 
slowly. 

It  was  her  maid  Saunders. 

The  maid's  face  was  quite  pale ;  she  held 
a  corner  of  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and  looked 
furtively  and  hesitatingly  at  her  mistress. 

"  Oh,  if  you  please,  miss,"  she  began,  and 
then  stopped, 

Inez  tried  to  speak,  and  again  was  unable 
to  utter  a  word. 

*'  Miss  Mordaunt  thought  I'd  best  let  you 
know,  miss — immejitly,  if  you  please,  miss — 
and,  if  you  please,  miss,  he — it — your  poor 
papa — it's — it's  all  over,  miss." 

"  lie's  dead ! "  moaned  Inc?;,  in  a  low, 
tremulous  voice ;  and  then,  turning  away,  she 
flung  herself  again  upon  her  couch. 

Saunders  stood  looking  at  her  for  some 
time,  as  though  waiting  for  orders.  But  no 
orders  came  from  her  mistres:'.  She  satisfied 
herself  that  she  had  not  fainted,  and  then 
quietly  left  the  roniii.  Outside,  Miss  Mordaunt 
was  waiting,  who  camo  in  and  lookcc  at  Inez 
for  a  moment.  She  saw,  however,  thit  noth- 
ing could  be  done,  and  tlierefore  very  natural- 
ly concluded  that  for  the  present  the  be- 
reaved daughter  ought  to  be  left  to  herself. 

Inez  now  remained  motionless  for  several 
hours.  All  the  while  her  mind  was  filled 
with  the  remembrance  of  those  words  which 
formed  so  strange  a  legacy  from  a  dying  fa- 
ther to  a  daughter,  and  with  the  unparalleled 
thoughts  to  which  those  words  gave  rise.  It 
waf  easy  to  recall  them  all.  Over  and  over 
again  she  citeratcd  them :  "  I  have  no  damih- 
ierl  You  arc  not  mill c I  Youarrhh!  lie  is 
coming  for  you  and  for  vengeance/"  Together 
with  these  words  she  recalled  his  words  to 
Blake.  It  was  Blake  who  had  kissed  him. 
It  was  Blake  to  whom  he  had  shown  a  father's 
love.  It  was  also  Blake,  no  doubt,  who  had 
closed  his  eyes  when  all  was  over. 

It  was  abo.it  an  hour  before  sundown 
when  Inez  at  length  reused  hcrpolf.  She 
rose,  arranged  her  dress,  and  called  her  maid. 
Saunders  came  in,  as  before,  cautiously,  and 
watching  her  mistress  furtively. 

"  I  wish  (0  see  him,"  said  Inez.  "  Ho  and 
Ask  if  I  may  see  him  now." 


She  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  but  without  any 
tremor  that  could  be  detected. 

"  Oh,  yes,  miss,"  said  Saunders,  "  you  may. 
They  told  me  to  tell  you  more'n  an  hour  ago." 

Inez  said  no  more,  but  left  the  room,  fol- 
lowed by  Saunders,  and  went  to  the  apart- 
ment around  'which  so  many  griefs  were  al- 
ready gathered.  She  opened  the  door.  The 
curtains  were  drawn. 

"  AVait  here  for  me,"  said  she  to  Saunders, 
and  thru,  entering,  she  closed  the  door  behind 
her. 

The  room  was  too  dark  to  see  any  thing, 
and  Inez  drew  one  of  the  curtains  aside  and 
thus  let  in  a  dim  light.  Then  she  turned 
towiird  the  bed,  whereon  she  saw  tiie  outline 
of  the  figure  stretched  out  there.  Tor  a  mo- 
ment she  hesitated,  and  then  advanced  till 
she  reached  the  head  of  the  bed,  where  she 
stood  for  a  few  moments  in  thought.  At 
length,  with  a  steady  hand,  she  drew  down 
the  covering  from  oft'  the  face  of  the  dead. 

There  it  lay,  all  that  was  mortal  of  the 
man  whom  she  had  called  father,  but  who  had 
disowned  her  with  his  last,  dying  words,  and 
who,  before  her  very  eyes,  as  she  sat  crushed 
and  stricken  before  him,  had  installed  another 
in  her  place,  and  driven  her  from  his  heart. 
Against  such  trcatiacnt  her  soul  rebelled  ;  the 
dark  doubt  that  ho  had  cast  into  her  mind  as 
to  wi  ether  he  was  her  father  prevented  her 
nr  ,v  from  mourning  over  the  dead  ■,  ith  a 
daughter's  grief;  and,  even  as  she  looked  at 
the  face  of  the  dead,  her  chief  and  uppermost 
thoughts  were  about  the  impenetrable  mystery 
that  now  surrounded  hor. 

That  thin,  withered  f..ce,  cold  in  death, 
with  its  sunken  checks,  and  projecting  cheek- 
bones, and  hollow  orbits,  where  the  closed 
eyes  lay  sunken,  bore  no  rcsemblaiico  to  the 
one  who  in  life  had  been  known  as  Ilonnigar 
\Vyvcrne.  The  lips  were  drawn  back,  and 
the  teeth  were  disclosed,  so  that  there  was 
formed  something  like  a  grisly  smile.  It 
seemed  to  Inez  that  this  man  was  yet  mock- 
ing her  even  in  death,  and  that  this  ghastly 
smile  had  been  called  u]/  by  her  approi."!]. 
The  thought  was  too  horrible.  She  drew 
back  the  covering,  and  turned  away. 

She  turned  away  and  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  apartment  with  hor  face  averted  from 
tlie  dead.  Of  the  n  inner  of  his  death  she 
had  as  yet  heard  nothing.  Whether  he  had 
said  any  thing  more  or  not — whetlier  ho  had 
relructed  or  confirmed  his  declaration  about 


i 

1 

'-0 


.Jill 


THE  GOLD   CRUCIFIX, 


n 


but  without  any 
1. 

idcrs,  "  you  may, 
)'n  an  hour  ago." 
)ft  the  room,  Ibl- 
it  to  the  apart- 
y  griefs  were  al- 
,  the  door.    The 

she  to  Saunders, 
the  door  behind 

0  see  any  thing, 
rtains  aside  and 
hen  she  turned 
;  saw  the  outhne 
icre.  For  a  mo- 
in  advanced  till 
!  bed,  where  she 
n  thouglit.  At 
slie  drew  down 
;  of  the  dead. 
3  mortal  of  the 
ler,  but  who  had 
ving  words,  and 
she  sat  crushed 
nstalled  another 
from  his  heart, 
ul  rebelled ;  the 
nto  her  mind  as 

prevented  her 
0  dead  ■  ith  a 

she  looked  at 
and  uppermost 
ctrable  mystery 

cold  in  death, 
ojcoting  ohetk- 
ero  the  closed 
nililaiioo  to  the 
n  as  Ilonnigar 
iwii  back,  and 
liiat  there  was 
sly  smile.  It 
was  yet  moek- 
at  this  ghastly 
her  approi,"!!, 
lo.  She  drew 
away. 

in  the  middle 
'  averted  from 
his  death  she 
lu'thcr  he  had 
hcther  ho  had 
laiation  about 


her,  she  could  not  know,  and  this  she  was 
eager  to  learn.  This  she  could  find  out  only 
from  Dr.  Blake.  To  send  for  him  was,  how- 
ever, so  repugnant  to  her  delicacy  that  she 
hesitated  for  some  time ;  but  finally,  seeing 
that  there  was  no  alternative,  she  went  to  the 
door  and  told  the  maid  to  ask  him  to  come. 

In  a  few  moments  Ulakc  entered.  Uc 
bowed  to  her  in  silence.  Ho  did  not  attempt 
to  console  her,  or  to  condole  with  her.  There 
were  reasons  which  made  any  such  things  im- 
possible, for,  while  ths  astonishing  words  of 
the  deceased  had  disturbed  Inez  as  we  have 
iieon,  they  had  produced  in  the  mind  of  Blake 
an  ctrect  in  every  respect  as  perplexing,  as 
confusing,  and  as  agitating.  Tliose  dying 
words  lived  in  his  memory  as  in  hers,  but  she 
was  the  'ast  one  in  all  the  world  with  whom 
ho  wov.id  care  to  discuss  then.. 

Inez  was  seated  near  the  window,  and 
Blake  took  a  seat  not  far  away.  The  silence 
lasted  for  some  time.  Inez  had  much  to  ask, 
but  knew  not  how  to  begin. 

"  Dr.  Blake,"  said  she,  at  length,  in  alow, 
mournful  voice,  "  it  was  very  unfortunate  that 
I  left — him — so  soon — but  I  thought  that  he 
would  be  spared  to  us  a  little  longer.  Was 
there  not  time,  after  his  confession,  to  call 
me?" 

"There  was  not,"  said  Blake,  slowly — and 
then  after  a  pause  ho  added,  "  There  was  no 
confession." 

"  Xo  confession  !  "  exc'aimed  Inez. 

The  doctor  shook  bij  head. 

"  He  was  not  able  to  speak  when  i  ;ie  priest 
came  to  him.  Before  you  had  been  gone  ten 
minutes — all  was  over." 

Inez  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"  Ho  said  nothing,  then?  " 

"  Xothing,"  said  Blake, 

For  this  intelligenco  Inez  was  not  quite 
prepared,  for  she  had  hitherto  supposed  that 
a  C"  jssion  had  been  made  to  the  priest — in 
whi''  c  she  hoped  that  some  result  might 
come  Ul  it.  But  ho  had  died  and  made  no 
sign,  and  this  it  was  that  now  seemed  most 
bitter,  And  now  what  next  was  there  to  in- 
fiuirc— what  more  should  she  ask  of  him? 
That  next  question  trembled  on  her  lips,  yet 
she  feared  to  ask  it.  The  question  wo\ild  be 
a  final  one — a  decisive  one.  It  would  change 
her  who'o  future  life — it  would  affect  it  mate- 
rially for  weal  or  woe.  It  would  put  an  end 
to  her  suspense  on  one  point,  and  confirm  one 
dark  suspicion  or  remove  It, 


"Dr,  Blake,"  said  she,  at  length,  after  a 
long  delay,  fixing  her  sad  eyes  earnestly  upon 
him,  with  a  look  that  showed  him  that  no 
evasion  would  be  tolerated  now  ;  and  speak- 
ing in  a  voice  whose  mournful  intonations 
found  an  echo  in  the  depths  of  his  soul — "Dr. 
Blake — you  know  what  his  dying  words — his 
last  words  to  me  were — and  his  las-t  acts — 
you  know  also  what  those  dying  words  and 
acts  were  to  you.  You  must  understand  the 
whole  force  of  their  appalling  meaning — and 
you  must  see  that  even  the  death  of  one  whom 
I  have  loved  as  a  father,  cannot  be  more  ter- 
rible than  that  revelation  which  he  seemed 
to  make.  While  he  was  speaking  you  told 
me  that  it  was  only  delirium.  I  ask  you  now 
in  the  name  of  that  God  who  sees  us  both — 
did  you  speak  the  truth  ?  Will  j-ou  now  say 
to  me  that  it  was  delirium," 

She  stopped,  and  her  eyes,  which  had 
never  withdrawn  themselves  from  his,  seemed 
now  to  rest  on  him  with  a  more  imperative 
earnestness,  as  though  they  would  extort  the 
truth  from  him.  His  own  eyes  fell,  and  a 
feeling  of  something  like  dismay  took  posses- 
sion of  him,  as  he  thought  of  the  answer 
which  she  was  forcing  from  him. 

"  You  will  not  answer  me,"  said  Inez, 
mournfully,  after  a  long  pause. 

Blake  drew  a  long  breath. 

'■  It  is  not  always  possible  to  say  exactly," 
said  he,  in  a  hesitating  manner,  "  how  much 
of  delirium  '^nters  into  the  fancies  of  a  sick 
man.  lie  was  levtirish — he  had  uoen  taking 
powerful  drugs — at  that  time  his  mind  may 
have  gone  altogether  astray.  It  is  hnrdly  pos- 
sible to  answer  your  qv-'stio  i  ■"ositively." 

"Have  you  thought  o*"  ♦';osc  worda 
since  ? " 

"  I  have,  and  Ins'ui'!  Vi/u  most  solemnly 
that  I  cannot  attach  any  intclligiblo  meaning 
to  them." 

"In  my  case,"  said  Inez,  thinking  of  the 
letter,  "  circvmstanocs  have  occurred  which 
give  a  strange  and  painful  significance  to 
those  words,  though  I  cannot  understand  how 
they  can  be  true," 

Blake  said  nothing,  lie,  too,  had  his  own 
reasons  for  attaching  a  painful  significnnce 
to  those  words,  Bm;  he  did  not  wish  to  say 
one  word  whieli  ni;gl.t  increase  the  trouble  of 
Inez.  He  wished,  if  possible,  to  say  that 
which  migh^  riiiiovo  her  suspicions,  ytt  this 
very  thing  he  know  not  how  to  say, 

"  One  more  question,"  said  Inez,     "  Do 


m 


30 


AN  OI'EX   QUESTION. 


1 


>  :"ji 


■     1! 


I! 


you  now  believe,  in  your  own  lieart,  Dr.  Blake, 
that  those  words  were  the  language  of  deliri- 
um ?  " 

Blake's  heart  beat  fast.  lie  looked  at 
Inez,  and  then  looked  away.  lie  knew  not 
how  to  answer  this  direet  (juestion.  He 
•would  have  been  willing  to  evade,  or  even  to 
indulge  in  a  little  mild  deceit  for  her  sake ; 
but  with  those  clear,  sad,  earnest  eyes  fast- 
ened upon  him,  no  deceit,  however  slight,  was 
possible. 

''  You  do  not  answer,"  said  Inez.  "  Your 
silence  can  have  only  one  meaning.  AVill  you 
say  that  you  believe  those  words  were  deli- 
rium ?  " 

Blake  looked  at  her  with  a  face  full  of 
mournful  deprecation.  It  seemed  to  him  at 
that  moment  that  his  inability  to  give  the  an- 
swer which  she  wished,  was  placing  between 
them  an  eternal  barrier,  yet  that  answe '  was 
one  which  he  could  not  give.  In  his  secret 
soul  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  the  words  of 
the  dying  man  were  sane  and  rational. 

Silence  now  followed,  and  Blako,  after 
■waiting  some  minutes,  and  finding  that  Inez 
had  notliing  further  to  say,  rose  and  took  his 
departure,  leaving  her  alone  with  the  dead. 

And  now  im  incident  occurred  which 
seemed  to  complicate  still  more  the  extraor- 
dinary net-work  of  bewildering  circumstances 
♦''ftt  V.  as  interweaving  itself  about  Inez. 

She  was  pitting  by  the  window.  I  lor  back 
■was  turned  toward  the  bed.  In  order  to  put 
herself  iu  that  position,  she  had  moved  the 
chair  a  short  distance  from  the  place  where  it 
had  been  standing.  It  was  a  heavy  stulled 
chair,  without  caster.H,  and  to  move  itre()\iired 
some  ellbrt.  As  she  sat  here,  her  feet  ref  tod 
on  the  very  place  where  the  ch;\ir  had  origi- 
nally stood. 

As  Blake  retired,  she  leaned  her  head  for- 
v.ard,  and,  feeling  wear}',  she  looked  for  somo 
support  to  it.  The  window-ledge  was  at  the 
right  height  to  give  this  support.  Upon  this 
■window-ledge  she  placed  her  right  hand,  and 
then  turned  herself  slightly,  so  as  to  rest  her 
forehead  on  this  hand.  As  she  made  this 
movement,  her  foot  struck  something  that  lay 
upon  the  floor,  and  a  slight  clinking  sound 
arose.  Thinking  that  it  might  be  some  orna- 
cnt  which  had  fallen,  she  stooped  to  pick  it 
up. 

On  lifting  it  up,  she  found,  however,  that 
it  was  no  ornament,  but  something  of  a  far 
different  kind. 


It  was  a  crucilix,  to  which  was  attached  a 
small  fragment  of  chain.  Kaising  it  close  to 
the  light,  the  very  first  glance  filled  her  with 
astonishment. 

The  crucifix  was  about  three  inches  long. 
It  was  of  fjolid  gold,  and  of  the  most  exquisite 
workmanship.  The  broken  chain  was  also 
of  gold,  and  it  seemed  to  have  been  snapped 
asunder  unknown  to  the  wearer,  who  had 
gone  awa)',  leaving  it  here  behind  him. 

But  who  was  the  owner  ? 

Not  Mr.  Wy  vcrne.  He  had  nothing  of  the 
kind,  nor  was  he  a  man  who  would  Lave  car- 
ried such  an  article  on  his  travels. 

It  seemed  to  Inez  most  probable  that  i'.u 
golden  crucifix  belonged  to  the  priest.  Tii^ 
priest  had  come,  but  his  oflice  was  not  per- 
formed. There  may  have  been  some  agitation 
in  his  mind  at  so  sudden  a  call,  followed  by 
so  sudden  a  death ;  and,  as  his  thoughts  were 
occupied  with  this  unusual  event,  he  may  not 
have  noticed  the  Ic-is  of  the  crucifix.  The 
chain  may  havo  broken  by  catching  on  some 
projection,  such  as  the  arm  of  the  chair,  it 
had  fallen  to  the  floor,  and  perhaps  imder  the 
chair,  where  it  had  lain  unnoticed  until  she 
had  moved  the  chair  from  its  usual  place. 

In  this  way  Inez  accounted  for  the  extraor- 
dinary presence  of  the  golden  crucifix  in  this 
chamber.  But,  while  she  was  thus  thinking, 
she  was  gazing  intently  upon  the  elaborate 
work,  and  the  exquisite  design  of  the  crucifix 
itself;  and,  finally,  having  studied  one  side, 
she  turned  it  over  with  the  idea  that  the  name 
of  the  owner  might  possibly  be  engraved  on 
the  reverse,  or  something  else  which  might 
give  a  clew  to  its  ownership.  The  moment 
that  she  turned  it  over,  her  attention  was  ar- 
rested by  some  letters.  Looking  at  them 
closely,  she  read  the  following. 

At  the  intersection  of  the  arms  of  the 
cross  were  these  letters : 

B«   In* 

i"  Memoriam, 

I.  M. 

On  the  lower  part  of  the  cross,  and  running 
down  its  length,  wore  these  words : 

JHe  Jem  Ikmiiiif, 

Dona  ei  reguievi,    Amen. 

As  Inez  looked  at  tho-^c  letters,  i  ho  felt 
utterly  confounded,  and  '  \i\<X  scan  r,  iidJovo 
lior  own  eyes.  Yet  the  e  were  fl'u -•  .era 
unmistakably,  (ho  inhi  ■■;  ^liicb  .'"ur  a  week 
and  more  had  filled  a!i  her  thoughts;  tho 


.^^y 

:.l^ 


THE   GOLD   CRUCIf'IX. 


n 


■h  was  attaclied  a 
{aisiiig  it  close  to 
cc  filled  her  with 

hree  inches  long, 
be  most  exquisite 
t  chain  was  also 
ave  been  snapped 
ivearer,  who  had 
chind  him. 

ad  nothing  of  the 
)  would  have  car. 
•avels, 

)robablo  thai  i'.if 
the  priest.  Th; 
lice  was  not  per- 
^n  some  agitation 
call,  followed  by 
lis  thoi'ghts  were 
■vent,  ho  may  not 
lie  crucifix.  The 
jatching  on  some 
of  the  chair,  it 
erhaps  under  the 
loticcd  until  she 
I  usual  place, 
d  for  the  extraor- 
1  crucifix  in  this 
s  thus  thinking, 
in  the  elaborate 
;n  of  the  crucifix 
tudied  one  side, 
ea  that  the  name 
be  engraved  on 
Ife  which  might 
).  The  moment 
ittcMition  was  «r- 
lokiiig  at  them 

I* 

10  arms  of  the 


,'4 


ss,  ond  running 
ordu : 

Irmn. 

letter.'.,  >  h-J  felt 

scanr,  ijriicve 
o  fI'Li"  !. :  ,cr8 
icl'  .''or  u  week 

thoughts;   the 


mysterious  letters,  B.  M.,  which  all  that  time 
hid  been  present  in  her  thoughts  by  day  and 
night.  What  did  this  mean  ?  How  came  the 
crucifix  iicre — this  crucifix,  marked  with  such 
signs  as  these  ? 

That  it  did  not  and  could  not  belong  to 
Mr.  Wjverno  she  felt  confident,  as  has  been 
said.  She  knew  that  he  had  brought  no  such 
article  with  him.  He  was  indifl'erent  to  all 
religious  matters ;  and,  besides,  she  had  been 
his  nurse  for  a  week,  during  which  time  that 
very  chair  had  been  frequently  moved.  She 
reverted  then  more  confidently  than  ever  to 
her  former  conclusion,  that  it  belonged  to  the 
priest;  and  then  at  once  aro.se  the  question, 
How  came  this  priest  by  any  such  thing  as 
this  ?  One  wild  thought  instantly  arose  that 
the  priest  himself  was  13.  M.  The  letter  had 
stated  that  he  was  in  Home,  on  his  way  to 
England.  Might  not  this  priest  have  been 
the  very  man  ?  And,  if  so,  what  then  ?  What 
had  happened  at  that  interview  ?  Had  they 
spoken  together,  or  had  Mr.  Wyverne  avoided 
his  dreaded  enemy  in  a  more  efTieacious  man- 
ner than  that  which  the  letter  had  suggested, 
and  fled  from  him,  not  by  a  pretended  death, 
but  by  one  that  was  real?  Could  the  priest 
bo  B.  M.  ?  If  so,  she  might  see  him,  and  solve 
all  the  mystery. 

Witli  ti;;s  thought,  she  called  in  her  maid. 

"I-  th'!  priest  here,  Saunders?"  asked 
Inez 

'    *h.  t  '.  uiss ;  he  left  long  ago." 

"    .■!..';  i'20 '     IIow  long  ago ?  " 

"-v'l,  v<ny  long,  miss,  after — after  poor 
master."  "Iter  I ••  was  took,"  said  Saunders, 
hesitating  .  ^  i.j  cfibrt  to  find  some  suitable 
way  of  ::^  .diioning  tiie  dread  subject  of  death. 

iliis  intelligence  was  to  Inez  a  sad  disap- 
pointment. 

"  Do  you  know  where  he  went  ?  " 

"No,  miss." 

"  Do  you  know  his  name  ?  " 

"Nj,  miss;  but,  if  you  please,  miss,  I'll 
i  .«ro  for  John   Thomas.     I   think   he  knows, 

"  Send  him  to  my  room,"  said  Inez.  "  I'm 
\&'^'r:  "uiPre."  Saying  this,  Inez  rose,  wearily, 
am!  r  iurncd  to  her  own  apartment. 

lu  n  few  minutes  John  Thomas  made  his 
appearance.  He  was  a  tall  footman,  with 
heavy  face  and  irreproachable  calves.  He 
bowed,  and  said : 

"I  beg  parding,  miss;  but  wos  you  a 
wantin'  me  ? " 


After  which  he  stood  with  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  drawn  down,  and  a  lugubrious 
aspect  on  his  face,  which  was  maintained  by 
an  occasional  snuffle. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  about  that  priest," 
said  Inez.     "  Do  you  know  his  name  ?  " 

"  Me,  miss  ?  No,  miss ;  and,  wot's  more, 
there's  nobody  abr'ut  'ere  as  knows  it.  I  alius 
likes  to  know  wot's  goin'  on,  miss ;  but  this 
'ere  priest  got  ahead  of  me." 

"  Didn't  he  give  any  name  i " 

"Name,  miss?  No,  mis.s.  He  came  late 
last  night,  and  left  early  this  mornin',  not  long 
after  the — the  late  mournful  bereavemink, 
miss." 

At  this,  Inez  felt  utterly  disheartened. 

"  Nobody  knows  hauy  think  about  'im 
more'n  me ;  an'  wot  I  knows  hain't  no  more'n 
the  letters  of  'is  name,  which  I  see  'em  on  'is 
valise,  as  'e  walked  out  of  the  hinn." 

"Letters  of  his  name!"  exclaimed  Inez, 
catching  at  these  words.  "  AVhat  letters  did 
you  see  V  " 

"Why,  miss,  I  felt  hinquisitlve  about  'im, 
and,  has  I  couldn't  find  hout  'is  namo,  I 
watched  'is  valise.  It  'ad  two  letters  on  it, 
painted  quite  big — " 

"  Two  letters ! "  said  Inez,  breathlessly. 
"  What  wore  they  ?  " 

"The  letters,"  said  John  Thomas,  "wos 
B.  M." 

At  this  confirmation  of  her  theory,  Inei 
was  too  nmch  overcome  to  make  any  re- 
joinder, but  sat  in  silence  and  perplexity  for 
some  time.    At  last  she  looked  up. 

"  What  did  he  look  like  ?  "  she  asked, 
abruptly. 

"The  priest,  miss? — raejium  size,  miss; 
dark  complected ;  heyes  black,  and  'eavy 
heyebrows ;  'is  'air,  too,  miss,  wos  a  hir'n 
gray.  He  looked  more  like  a  Ilitaliau  than 
a  Iltnglishman,  miss." 

To  Inez  this  information  gave  no  assist- 
ance :  but  she  noted  in  he,"  mind  the  chief 
points  in  this  description,  in  case  of  future 
need. 

She  saw  Dr.  Blake  onco  more  that  same 
evening,  and  received  from  him  a  still  more 
minute  description  of  the  personal  appearance 
of  the  priest  "  B.  M." 


33 


AX   OPEN   QUESTION. 


I       I 


CIIAPTER  Vlir. 

THE    EnONY    CASKET,     AND    ITS    STRANGE    CON- 
TESTS. 

The  remaing  of  Ilcnnigar  Wyvernc  were 
sent  home  for  burial. 

Inez  and  Bessie,  with  tlicir  servant.^,  left 
for  home  immediately 

Di'.'  Blake  acc(  ':.n"cd  them  as  far  as 
Boulogne.     He  had     '  ugement  what- 

ever to  do  this.    Inez  .,  eoccupied,  and 

80  buried  in  the  depths  >  t^-  own  gloomy 
thoughts  that  she  seemed  to  be  unconscious 
of  his  presence.  At  Boulogne,  therefore,  he 
bade  her  farewell,  and  stood  upon  the  pier, 
gazing  with  mournful  eyes  upon  the  steamer 
that  bore  Inez  away  from  him,  until  it  was 
out  of  sight. 

Inez  had  not  chosen — for  reasons  already 
mentioned — to  make  a  confidante  of  Bessie. 
It  is  to  be  supposed,  therefo  j,  that  this  young 
lady  had  no  idea  of  the  peculiar  troubles  of 
her  friend,  but  attributed  them,  as  was  natu- 
ral, to  the  pain  of  boreavement.  She  showed 
the  utmost  delicacy  in  her  behavior  toward 
Inez,  and  never  sought  to  utter  any  of  those 
condolences  which  are  so  useless  to  assuage 
the  true  grief  of  the  heart.  81ic  refrained 
also  from  intruding  upon  the  solitude  of  Inez 
when  she  showed  that  she  wished  to  be  alone, 
and  merely  evinced  her  afleclion  by  sundry 
little  attentions  which  were  directed  toward 
the  bodily  comfort  of  her  friend.  AVliatevcr 
Bessie's  own  thoughts  or  feelings  were,  tluy 
never  appeared ;  nor  was  it  certain  at  all 
whether  she  felt  wounded  or  slighted  by  the 
reserve  of  one  from  whom  she  might  perhaps 
have  claimed  greater  confidence.  But  Inez 
was  naturally  of  a  reserved  temper,  and,  even 
if  she  had  been  the  most  communicative  soul 
in  the  world,  the  secret  that  she  now  had  was 
one  which  few  would  care  to  communicate. 

In  that  great  craving  and  longing  to  ex- 
press her  secret  griefs  which  Inez  felt,  as 
most  people  feel,  at  this  time,  she  had  re- 
course to  a  simple  plan,  which  was  not  with- 
out its  advantages.  She  wrote  down  the  chief 
facts  of  her  mysterious  case  in  her  private 
memoriindum-book,  and  over  these  words  her 
eyes  used  often  to  waniier,  not  merely  in  the 
solitude  of  her  own  room,  but  even  in  the 
greater  publicity  of  rail-cars  and  steamboats. 

What  Inez  wrote  down  was  as  follows ; 


1.  For  so.tic  xinltwirn  cause,  II.  W.  and 
B.  J/,  were  mortal  enemies. 

2.  It  seems  as  if  II.  W.  was  the  offender, 
and  B.  31.  the  injured  one. 

3.  lor  this  reason,  perhaps,  II.  ]V.  stood  in 
mortal  terror  of  B.  21. 

4.  A  third  party  in  this  case  is  one  Kevin 
Miu/rath.. 

r>.  /  have  been  brought  up  as  the  daughter 

nf  II.    W. 

6.  //.  ir,  on  his  death-bed,  and  with  his 
last  words,  has  solemnly  said  that  I  am  not  his 
dauffhier. 

I.  II.  W.  has  said,  on  his  death-bed,  that  I 
am  the  daw/hler  of  his  mortal  enemy,  B.  M. 

8.  //.  ]r.  1ms  said,  on  his  death-bed,  that 
Basil  Blake  is  his  son. 

9.  B.  M.  is  a  lioman  Catholic  priest. 

10.  How  can  I  be  the  daughter  of  a  R.  C. 
priest  ? 

II.  B.  M.  was  jtresent  at  the  death-bed  of 
II.  W.,  and  saw  him  die. 

12.  If  he  is  my  father,  why  did  he  not 
seek  for  me?  Answer — Because  he  may  have 
been  told  that  I  am  dead. 

\^.  B.  Jf.  dropped  his  crueijix.     I  found  U. 

By  constantly  brooding  over  these  things, 
which  she  had  thus  summed  up  that  they 
might  bo  always  present  to  her  eyes,  Inez 
found  lierself  sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into 
an  abyss  of  bewilderment  from  which  no  out- 
let appeared.  Tlie  great  question  was,  What 
shall  I  do?  and  this  she  could  not  answer. 
Her  own  helplessness  was  utter.  Her  posi- 
tion was  niost  false  and  intolerable.  The 
name  by  which  she  was  known  was  not  hers. 
Her  parentage  was  thrown  in  doubt,  and  that 
doubt  indicated  something  intolerable  to  a 
mind  like  hers.  Out  of  all  this  confusion  and 
misery  she  had  one  definite  purpose  only,  and 
that  was,  to  carry  on  the  search  as  soon  as 
she  reached  home,  and  take  the  first  oppor- 
tunity that  presented  itself  of  investigating 
the  papers  of  Ilcnnigar  Wyvcme. 

To  one  who  was  so  eager  as  she  was,  the 
first  opportunity  would  inevitably  be  seized. 
Scarce  had  Inez  set  foot  within  her  house,  than 
she  began  a  search  among  those  effects  of  the 
ileccascd  which  had  been  sent  home  already. 
Here  f^he  found  nothing;  but  a  greater  search 
was  before  her — one,  too,  which  she  had  held 
in  view  all  along,  and  for  which  she  had  pre- 
pared herself  before  leaving  Villeneuve.  This 
was  the  investigation  of  the  cabinet  of  Ilcn- 
nigar Wyvernc,  where  she  supposed  he  would 


THE   EBONY   CASKET,  AND   ITS   STRANGE   CONTENTS. 


Muse,  11.   W.  and 

was  the  offender^ 

ps,  JL  W.  stood  in 

s  case  is  one  Kevin 

ip  as  the  daughter 

bed,  and  with  his 
'  thai  I  am  not  his 


iln  death-bed,  that  J 
'al  enemy,  B.  M, 
his  death-bed,  that 

'athoUc  priest, 
iavghler  of  a  R.  C. 

at  the  death-bed  of 

r,  v'hij  did  he  not 
tecause  he  may  have 

rufifix.     I  found  U. 
I  over  these  things, 
med  up  that  they 
to  her  eyes,  Inez 
per  and  deeper  into 
from  which  no  out- 
luc3tion  was,  What 
couhi  not  answer. 
s  utter.     Her  posi- 
intolcrablc.    The 
own  was  not  hers, 
in  doubt,  and  that 
^  intolerable  to  a 
this  confusion  and 
purpose  only,  and 
pcarch  as  soon  a8 
e  the  first  oppor- 
If  of  investigating 
vvenie. 

■r  as  she  was,  the 
vital)ly  be  seized, 
thill  her  house,  than 
those  effeets  of  tlie 
ent  homo  already, 
jut  a  greater  search 
which  she  had  held 
which  she  had  pre- 
g  Villeneuve.  This 
he  cabinet  of  Hen- 
suppofcd  he  would 


have  been  most  likely  to  keep  any  thing  re- 
lating to  the  great  mystery,  if,  indeed,  any 
thing  at  all  had  been  kept.  At  Villeneuve 
she  had  thought  of  this,  and  had  prepared 
for  it  by  obtaining  then,  before  the  effeets  of 
the  deceased  were  packed  up,  the  keys  of  that 
very  cabinet.  These  he  had  carried  with 
liim,  and  she  found  them  in  his  travelling- 
desk. 

Inez  had  no  difficulties  thrown  in  her  way. 
Bessie  showed  no  inclination  to  interfere 
with  any  of  her  movements.  She  still  main- 
tained the  same  delicate  consideration  which 
has  already  been  mentioned.  She  seemed 
rather  to  wait  for  Inez  to  make  the  first  ad- 
vances toward  their  old  confidence,  and  ven- 
tured upon  nothing  more  than  the  usual  kiss 
at  meeting  in  the  morning  and  parting  at 
night,  and  an  occasional  caress  when  the 
mood  of  Inez  seemed  to  allow  it.  Bessie  had 
also  cultivated  a  pathetic  expression  of  face, 
which  was  quite  in  accordance  with  her  style 
of  beadty,  and  made  her  look  so  very  interest- 
ing that  Inez  once  or  twice  felt  inclined  to 
break  her  resolution  and  confide  all  to  her 
friend.  This,  however,  was  but  a  momentary 
impulse,  which  a  second  thought  never  failed 
to  destroy. 

The  city  residence  of  the  late  Ilennigar 
Wyverne,  iiisq.,  was  a  large  and  handsome 
edifice  in  a  fashionable  quarter  of  London. 
Opposite  the  morning-room  was  an  apartment 
.which  was  called  the  library,  but  which  had 
been  used  by  the  deceased  as  a  kind  of  office. 
Books  were  around  on  three  sides,  while  on 
the  fourth  were  two  articles  of  furniture  de- 
voted rather  to  business  than  to  literature  or 
learning.    One  of  these  was  a  closet,  filled 
•  with  papers  all  neatly  labelled  and  lying  in 
;  pigeon-holes.     The  other  was  a  massive  cabi- 
.|net,  which  contained  the  more  important  books 
Igand  papers.   It  was  this  last  which  Inez  wished 
-Imore  particularly  to  search. 
M      To  carry  on  such  a  search  would  require 
■fet'.me,  and  it  would  bo  necessary  to  be  free 
,^roin  observation.     These  conditions  could 
Vi'tot  be  obtained  by  day,  and  night  must  be 
>the  time.     Among  the  hours  of  the  night  it 
;:iwoiild  be  necessary  to  choose  those  when  the 
household  would    be  certain   to   bo  asleep. 
Those  hours  would  bo,  at  least,  not  earlier 
than  two  in  the  morning.     At  that  time  she 
might  hope  to  be  unnoticed,  unsuspected,  and 
undisturbed.    This  was  the  time,  ilien,  that 
.    Inez  decided  upon,  and  she  resolved  to  carry 


her  great  purpose  into  execution  on  the  sec- 
ond night  after  her  arrival. 

In  spite  of  the  great  necessity  which  she 
felt  pressing  her  on  to  this  task,  it  was  one 
from  which  Inez  recoiled  instinctively.  It 
seemed  to  be  a  dishonorable  thing.  But  this 
notion  was  one  which  she  reasoned  herself 
out  of;  and  by  pleading  the  dictates  of  duty 
she  silenced  what  was  perhaps,  after  all,  noth- 
ing more  than  false  sensitiveness. 

It  was  not  so  easy,  however,  to  overcome 
that  weakness  of  nerve  and  natural  timidity 
which  were  caused  by  the  nature  of  her  under- 
taking. Sotting  out  thus  on  this  midnight 
errand,  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  were 
about  to  commit  some  sin ;  and  it  was  some 
time,  even  after  the  hour  had  arrived,  before 
she  felt  strong  enough  to  venture  down.  At 
length  she  rallied  her  sinking  strength,  and 
stealthily  left  her  room.  Pausing  there,  she 
stood  listening.  All  was  still.  She  carried  a 
wax-candle,  but  it  was  not  lighted.  She  had 
some  matches,  and  could  light  the  candle 
when  she  reached  the  library. 

Softly  and  stealthily  she  descended.  There 
was  no  interruption  of  any  kind  whatever. 
She  reached  the  library  and  entered,  after 
which  she  shut  the  door  as  softly  as  possible, 
and  locked  it  on  the  inside.  She  then  took 
her  handkerchief  and  stuffed  it  into  the  key- 
liole.  After  this  she  examined  the  windows, 
and  found  that  the  blinds  were  closed.  No 
light  could  now  betray  her  presence  here,  and 
so  she  lighted  her  candle  and  looked  around 
her. 

The  dim  light  of  the  single  flickering  can- 
dle but  feebly  illuminated  the  large  and  lofty 
room.  In  the  distance  the  walls  and  shelves 
stood  enveloped  in  gloomy  shadows.  But 
Inez  had  eyes  only  for  that  cabinet  which  she 
had  come  to  explore.  It  was  immediately  in 
front  of  her,  and  she  held  the  keys  in  her 
hand. 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated.  It  seemed 
to  her  now  that  the  moment  bad  come — the 
supreme  moment  when  the  secret  would  be 
all  revealed.  Yet  about  that  revelation  what 
horrors  might  not  hang!  Already  one  revela- 
tion had  taken  place,  and  it  had  been  bitter 
indeed.  AVould  this  be  less  so  ?  It  seemed 
to  her  as  though  about  the  secret  of  her  par- 
entage tlieie  lurked  endless  possibilities  of 
crime,  and  shame,  and  dishonor. 

But  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  Suddenly 
mastering  her  feelings,  she  put  the  key  in  the 


34 


AX    Ol'LN    QUESTION. 


lock.  The  bolt  turned  back,  ^be  opened 
the  door. 

Belore  her  lay  the  ordinary  contents  of  a 
cabinet.  There  were  account-booka  standing 
upright,  and  papers  filed  away  and  labelled, 
so  numerous  that  the  sight  disuouraged  Inez. 
It  would  take  many  days  to  look  over  them 
all.  But  they  were  all  labelled  so  carel'uliy 
that  it  seemed  possible  for  her  to  got  a  gen- 
eral idea  of  most  of  them  after  all.  She  knelt 
down  in  front  of  the  cabinet,  and,  drawing  up 
a  chair,  she  put  the  candle  upon  it.  Then 
she  began  to  look  over  the  papers,  beginning 
at  the  right-hand  comer. 

This  task  soon  became  very  wearisome. 
Bundle  after  bundle  of  papers  revealed  no 
name  that  had  any  connection  with  those  ini- 
tials whoso  meaning  she  was  so  eager  to  dis- 
cover. Some  were  receipts,  others  letters, 
others  documents  of  a  business  nature.  At 
length  she  paused,  and  her  eyes  wandered  dc- 
BponJeutly  over  the  whole  assemblage  of  pa- 
pers, to  see  if  there  was  any  thing  there 
whioh  seemed  by  its  position  or  appearance 
to  indicate  any  thing  peculiar,  any  thing  dif. 
ferent  from  the  monotony  of  the  ot'-f^rs. 

lu  the  very  middle  of  the  cabinet  there  was 
a  square  drawer  about  a  foot  in  width  and 
depth,  and  this  seemed  to  Inez  to  be  a  place 
where  more  important  or  more  private  docu- 
ments might  be  kept.  It  seemed  best  to  open 
this  at  once.  She  had  the  whole  bunch  of  keys 
withhir,  which  she  had  obtained  possession  of 
at  Villcueuve,  and  felt  sure  that  the  key  to  this 
drawer  would  be  among  them.  One  by  one 
she  tried  the  keys  that  were  on  the  bunch, 
and  at  last  found  one,  as  she  had  hoped,  which 
would  fit.  She  unlocked  the  drawer  and 
opened  it. 

One  look  inside  showed  her  that  at  length 
she  had  found  one  thing  at  least  which  she 
desired — something  ditferent  from  the  general 
assemblage  of  receipts,  letters,  and  business 
documents. 

A  casket  lay  there  before  her,  inside  the 
drawer.  It  was  quite  small,  not  more  than 
six  inches  in  length,  and  was  made  of  ebony, 
with  silver  comers  and  edges,  together  with 
silver  feet,  and  a  handle  of  the  same  metal. 
At  the  sight  of  this,  she  felt  an  uncnutrolliiblc 
impatience  to  get  at  the  secret  of  its  contents, 
and  snatched  it  with  eager  hands  out  of  the 
drawer.  Some  letters  on  the  silver  plate  of 
tile  casket,  immediately  underneath  the  han- 
dle, attracted  her  attention.    She  held  it  clo.^e 


to  the  light.  The  silver  here  was  somewhat 
tarnished,  and  the  letters  were  of  an  antique 
Gothic  character,  such  as  are  used  for  inscrip. 
tions  over  the  doors  of  Ci^thedr.ll^",  and  at  first 
were  not  quite  intelligible.  IJut  Inez  rubbed 
at  the  silver  with  her  sleeve  till  the  plate 
grew  bright,  and  then  once  more  held  it  to 
the  candle. 

The  letters  were  now  fully  revealed.  Iler 
heart  throbbed  wildly  at  the  sight.  The  let- 
ters before  her  eyes  were  those  same  ones 
which  so  haunted  her — 

B.  51. 

And,  now,  what  should  she  do  ?  Stay 
here  and  examine  the  casket?  No.  She  was 
liable  to  discovery.  She  had  been  here  long 
enough.  Better,  far,  to  take  the  little  casket 
away  and  examine  its  contents  in  her  own 
room,  at  her  leisure,  without  the  terror  of  pos- 
sible discovery  impending  over  her  constantly, 
and  constantly  distracting  her  thoughts.  In 
that  casket  she  felt  must  lie  all  that  she  could 
hope  to  find,  whatever  it  might  be;  and,  if 
this  were  empty,  or  if  its  contents  revealed 
nothing,  then  she  would  have  to  remain  in  her 
ignorance.  If  the  casket  held  any  thing,  she 
might  keep  it ;  if  not,  she  might  return  it  at 
some  future  time;  but,  meanwhile,  it  was 
best  for  her  to  take  it  away. 

So  she  now  closed  the  drawer,  locked  it, 
then  shut  up  and  locked  the  cabinet;  after 
which  she  rose  to  her  feet,  and,  hiding  the 
casket  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  she  took  the 
candle  and  prepared  to  leave  the  room. 

Before  unlocking  the  library -door  she 
stood  and  listened.  As  she  stood,  she  thought 
she  heard  a  low,  breathing  sound  close  by 
her.  Starting,  in  ten'or,  she  looked  hastily 
around.  But  the  room  was  all  in  gloom,  and 
all  empty  and  deserted.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  it  was  merely  her  fancy.  But  once  more, 
as  she  waited  listening,  she  heard  it  even 
more  plainly.  This  time  it  seemed  like  a 
suppressed  cough.  It  was  ou  the  other  side 
of  the  door. 

In  an  instant  it  flashed  upon  her  that  sho 
had  been  watched  and  followed,  and  that 
some  one  was  now  outside  trying  to  peep 
through  the  keyliole.  But  who  ?  Could  it  be 
some  burglar,  or  cotild  it  possibly  bo  one  of 
the  servants  ? 

She  waited  still,  and  listened.  But  there 
was  no  further  found.  The  cough  had  been 
suppressed,  and,  if  there  was  any  one  watch- 
ing, he  gave  no  sign  now.    There  was  some- 


TUB  EBONY  CASKET,  AND  ITS  STRANGE  CONTENTS. 


35 


Ls  somewhat 
f  an  antique 
1  for  inscrip. 
>,  and  ut  first 
Inez  rubbed 
Ul  the  plate 
■e  bdd  it  to 

vealed.  Her 
;bt.  The  let- 
e  same  ones 


;  do?     Stay 
No.    She  was 
;en  here  long 
5  little  casket 
i  in  her  own 
terror  of  pos- 
er constantly, 
tlioughts.    In 
ib;it  she  could 
t  be;  and,  if 
:ents  revealed 
remain  in  her 
any  thing,  she 
\t  return  it  at 
while,  it  was 

or,  locked  it, 
[ibinet;  after 
d,  hiding  the 

she  took  the 

room, 
iry  -  door  she 
d,  i^he  thought 
)uiid  close  by 
ookcd  hastily 
in  gloom,  and 
cmed  to  her 
ut  once  more, 

ard  it  even 
cemed  like  a 
the  other  side 

n  her  that  she 
vcd,  and  that 
ying  to  peep 
Could  it  be 
ilily  be  one  of 

mI.  But  there 
^h  had  been 
my  one  watch- 
icre  was  some* 


thing  fearful,  to  this  deft;ncelcs3  young  girl, 
in  the  thought  that  on  the  other  side  of  the 
door  might  be  some  lurking  enemy,  and  that 
the  moment  she  opened  it  he  might  spring  upon 
her ;  and,  for  a  long  time,  she  stood  in  fear, 
unable  to  open  it.  But  beneath  this  fear  there 
was  another  fear  of  too  long  a  delay — the  fear 
of  being  discovered  in  this  place — of  being 
compe  d  to  give  up  her  casket  before  she 
had  cxumincJ  its  contents;  and  this  roused 
her  to  a  sudden  pitch  of  resolution. 

She  ren  """d  her  handkerchief  from  the 
key-hole,  and  inserted  the  key  as  noiselessly  as 
possible.  Then  turning  it,  she  opened  the 
door,  and  peered  tremblingly  into  the  dark- 
ness. She  saw  nothing.  Slie  put  forth  her 
head.  Nothing  was  revealed.  Could  it  have 
been,  after  all,  a  mistake  ?  She  tried  for  the 
moment  to  think  so.  She  dared  not  blow  the 
light  out  just  yet,  however,  but  walked  with 
it  up  the  stairs,  and  then,  reaching  the  top, 
she  extinguished  it. 

It  was  dark  all  the  rest  of  the  way  to  her 
room,  and  she  hurried  on  as  quickly  and  as 
noiselessly  as  she  could,  but  there  was  a  ter- 
rible sense  of  being  pursued  which  almost 
overcame  her.  When  at  last  she  reached 
her  own  room,  she  closed  her  door  hastily, 
locked  it,  and  then  instantly  lighted  the  gas, 
whose  bright  flame,  illuminating  the  whole 
apartment,  quickly  drove  away  every  vestige 
of  her  recent  terror. 

Had  she  not  found  that  casket,  there  is 
no  doubt  that  the  smothered  cough  which 
she  had  heard  or  imagined  would  iiave  im- 
pressed her  much  more  deeply,  and  excited 
within  her  mind  some  strange  suspicions ; 
liut,  as  it  was,  the  casket  filled  all  her 
thoughts,  and  she  had  an  inordinate  and 
irresistible  longing  to  open  it  at  once. 

Once  more  she  searched  among  the  keys. 
One  there  was,  the  smallest  in  the  bunch,  of 
very  peculiar  shape,  which,  seemed  cxact^ 
adapted  to  that  casket.  She  tried  this  one 
first  of  all.  It  was  the  right  one !  She 
turned  it.     The  casket  was  unlocked. 

Ilor  heart  was  now  throbbing  most  vehe- 
mently, and  for  a  moment  she  delayed  before 
lifting  the  lid,  fearful  of  ilie  result  of  this 
search.  At  length,  however,  the  momentary 
hesitation  passed;  she  laid  her  hand  on  the 
lid  and  raised  it. 

The  casket  was  there,  open  before  her 
t>yes. 

Inside  of  this  there  was  a  parcel.    On  the 


outside   of    this   parcel  were  written    these 
words : 

"Mv  Darlings." 

Inez  opened  the  parcel,  with  hands  trem- 
bling no»v  in  this  supreme  moment  of  excite- 
ment, and  the  contents  soon  lay  revealed. 

What  it  contained  was  a  locket  made  of 
gold,  of  most  exquisite  design  and  finish, 
around  the  edges  of  which  was  a  row  of 
brilliants.  This  locket  was  about  two  inches 
in  length,  and  somewhat  less  in  width.  Its 
shape  was  oval.  It  was  constructed  so  as  to 
open  in  three  places,  and  on  the  edge  thero 
were  three  springs.  By  pressing  the  spring 
on  the  right,  the  side  of  the  locket  flew 
open  ;  the  left  spring  opened  the  left  side  of 
the  locket ;  and  the  middle  spring  opened 
the  locket  in  the  middle. 

Each  one  of  these  openings  disclosed  a 
miniature  portrait,  exquisitely  painted  on 
ivor)'.  One  of  these  represented  a  lady,  the 
second  a  girl  of  about  twelve  years  of  age, 
the  third  a  child.  Under  each  portrait  was  a 
tablet,  on  which  was  engraved  some  letters. 
Under  the  lady's  was  the  name  "  Inez ; "  un- 
der the  girl's  was  the  name  "Clara;"  and 
under  the  child's  was  the  name  "  Inez." 

As  Inez  opened  these  and  looked  at  them 
one  by  one,  her  heart  beat  so  fast  and  her 
hands  trembled  so  violently,  that  she  had  to 
lay  the  locket  down.  She  gasped  for  breath. 
She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept. 
These  tears  brought  relief,  and,  once  more 
taking  up  the  loeket,  she  looked  at  the  por- 
traits through  her  tears. 

She  looked  at  those  portraits,  and  there 
arose  within  her  feelings  mysterious,  un- 
speakable, unutterable.  They  seemed  like 
dreams — those  faces.  Where  in  her  life  had 
she  seen  the  lovely  face  of  that  lady  who 
smiled  on  her  there  out  of  that  portrait  so 
sweetly  V  Where  had  she  ever  seen  the  face 
of  that  beautiful  girl  Clara,  whose  deep,  dark 
eyes  were  now  fixed  on  her  ?  And  who  was 
that  child  Inez  ?  Who  ?  Could  the  thought 
that  was  iu  her  mind  be  true  ?  Dare  she  en- 
tertain such  a  fancy  ?  Uud  she  herself  ever 
been  one  of  those  three  ?  Could  it  be  that 
she  herself  had  ever,  in  far-off  days,  been  the 
original  of  that  beautiful  child-portrait  that 
now  met  her  eyes — smiling  in  itc  innocent 
happiness?  Was  that  her  sister  ?  Was  that 
her  mother?  Was  it  possible  that  this  which 
was  iu  her  mind  could  be  any  thing  else  than 
a  feverish,  a  dciiriuus  fancy — a  fancy  brought 


I 


N    I 


li 


86 


AS  OPEN  QUESTION. 


out  of  the  workings  of  that  brain  which  of 
late  had  been  so  intensely  and  bo  unremit- 
tingly active  ? 

No  ;  the  faces  were  not  unfamiliar.  These 
■were  not  the  faces  of  strangers.  Inez ! 
Clara !    Inez ! 

Hitherto  her  eyes  had  been  fascinated  by 
the  portraits,  but  now  they  caught  sight  of 
something  else  at  the  bottom  of  the  casket. 
It  was  a  piece  of  paper  folded  like  a  letter. 

She  took  it  up.  It  was  a  letter.  It  bore 
the  address : 

"IIesxigar  Wtverse,  Esq., 

"Zondon." 

It  was  a  fine,  bold  hand,  and  resembled 
the  same  one  in  which  the  words  were  writ- 
ten which  Inez  had  seen  on  the  parcel.  On 
opening  it  she  read  the  following : 

"My  PEAK  ITexnioak — Will  you  have  the 
i-indiicss  to  keep  this  casket  for  me  until  I  send 
for  itf  It  contains  their  miniatures,  which, 
after  some  deliberation,  I  have  concludid  not  to 
take  with  me.     Ever  ycnirs, 

"  Beuxal  MounACNT." 

Bernal  Moi  ilaunt ! 

Inez  read  that  name  over  a  hundred  times. 
This  was  the  meaning  of  the  initials,  then. 
And  Mordaunt !  AVhy,  that  was  Bessie's 
name.  What  was  the  meaning  of  that  ? 
Did  Bessie  know,  after  all  ?  Had  she  all 
along  been  acquainted  with  all  this  ?  Could 
it  be  possible  that  Bessie  had  known  that 
secrot  which  she  tried  so  hard  to  conceal 
from  her?  She  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
regarding  Bessie  all  along  as  a  sort  of  human 
butterfly,  but  she  began  to  think  that  Miss 
Mordaunt  might  have  a  far  deeper  nature 
than  she  had  ever  imagined. 

For  hours  Inez  sat  up,  thinking  over  this, 
■without  being  able  to  understand  it.  At  last, 
however,  her  exhausted  nature  gave  out,  and 
she  retired  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A   CURIOUS  FANCY. 

Blake  watched  the  steamer  until  it  was 
out  of  sight,  and  then  turned  sadly  away. 
The  great  change  that  had  come  over  Inez 
disheartened  him,  for,  altho\igli  ho  was  aware 
of  the  cause,  he  was  not  prepared  for  such  a 


result.  It  seemed  to  him  now  as  though  this 
separation  was  an  eternal  one,  and  the  star- 
tling revelation  which  had  been  made  by  the 
dying  'Wyverne,  while  it  filled  him  with 
amazement,  seemed  also  to  fix  between  him 
and  Inez,  for  all  the  future,  a  deep  and  im- 
passable gulf.  His  present  residence  was 
Paris,  and  he  returned  there  on  the  follow- 
ing day. 

Arriving  there,  he  spent  some  time  in  his 
rooms,  after  which  he  went  forth  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  Quartier  Latin.  Here  he  en- 
tered a  house,  and,  going  up  to  the  second 
story,  knocked  at  the  door  of  a  room  in  the 
rear  of  the  building. 

"  Come  in,"  said  a  deep-bass  voice. 

Blake  entered  thereupon,  saying  :  "  Hell- 
muth,  old  fellow,  how  are  you  ?  " 

At  this,  a  man  started  up,  letting  a  pipe 
fall  from  his  moulh  to  the  lioor,  and  upset- 
ting  a  chair  as  he  did  so. 

"  Blake  !  "  he  cried.  "  By  Heaven,  Blake  I 
Is  this  really  you  ?    AS'elcome  back  again  ! " 

And,  with  these  words,  he  stiode  over  tow- 
ard his  vi-sitor,  and  wrung  his  hand  heart- 
ily. 

Pr.  Blake's  fiiend  ■was  a  man  of  very 
peculiar  physiognomy.  He  was  a  tall  man, 
broad  -  shouldered,  deep -chested,  and  largo- 
limbed.  His  hair  was  short,  his  beard  was 
cropped  quiio  close,  and  a  heavy  though 
rather  ragged  mustache,  with  loiig  points  de- 
pending downward,  overshadowed  his  mouth. 
Hair  and  beard  were  grizzled  with  plentiful 
gray  hairs,  which  gave  an  air  of  grinmcss  to 
his  face.  His  brow  was  deeply  wrinkled,  his 
eyes  were  deep  set,  and  gray  and  piercing. 
His  nose  was  aquiline,  and  he  had  a  trick  of 
stroking  it  with  the  forefinger  of  his  left  hand 
whenever  he  was  involved  in  thoughts  of  a 
graver  kind  than  usual.  It  was  an  austere 
face,  a  stern  face,  yet  a  sad  one,  and  one,  too, 
which  was  not  without  a  Certain  charm  of  its 
own ;  and  there  were  many  who  could  bear 
testimony  to  the  warm  human  licart  that 
throbbed  beneath  the  sombre  exterior  of  Kane 
Hellmuth. 

The  room  was  a  large  one,  and  abedroom  ad- 
joined it,  but  both  were  furnished  in  the  most 
meagre  manner.  The  floor  was  of  red  tiles. 
There  was  a  sofa  and  an  arm-chair.  A  plain 
deal  table  stood  in  the  centre.  Upon  this 
was  a  tumbler  and  a  bottle,  a  tobacco-box, 
and  several  pipes, 

lilake  flung  himself  on  the  so*"-    .nd  Kane 


4 


as  though  this 
c,  and  the  stnr- 
cii  made  by  the 
llfd  him  witli 
ix  brtwceii  him 
1  deep  and  iiii- 
rcsideiice  was 
ou  the  follo\Y- 

omc  time  in  liis 
lortli  in  the  di- 
1.  Here  he  cn- 
1  to  the  second 
f  a  room  iu  the 


'  Hell- 


iss  voice, 
saying : 

9" 


p,  lcttin<T  a  pipe 
lloor,  and  upset- 

Heaven,  Blake! 
D  back  again  !  " 

fiti'ode  over  tow- 
hi.s  liand  hcart- 

a  man  of  very 
was  a  tall  man, 
'sted,  and  largo- 
t,  his  beard  was 
a  heavy  though 
\i  huig  points  de- 
lowed  his  mouth. 
:d  with  plentiful 
r  of  grinmess  to 
ply  wiiiiklcd,  his 
ay  and  piercing. 
lie  had  a  trick  of 
r  of  his  left  liand 
in  thoughts  of  a 
t  was  an  austere 
)ne,  and  one,  too, 
tain  charm  of  its 

who  could  bear 
mian  heart  that 
I  exterior  of  Kane 

and  a  bedroom  ad- 
lished  in  the  most 
was  of  red  tiles, 
n-ehair.  A  plaia 
litre.  Upon  this 
L>,  a  tobacco-box, 


le  so*":   ,.nd  Kane 


J 


!i    I' 


!'      l: 


I, 

■I 


■' 


I 


'W 


A  CURIOUS  FANCY. 


87 


Ilcllmuth  picked  up  tlio  chair,  and  seated 
Liinsclf  on  it  aguin, 

"  YouVo  been  gone  a  long  time,  Blake," 
said  bo,  stooping  to  pick  up  his  pipe,  and 
filling  it  again  as  he  spoke.  "  I  began  to 
think  that  you  had  emigrated  altogether  from 
the  capital  of  civilization,  to  saw  the  bonca 
of  outside  barbarians." 

"  Oh,  I've  been  rusticating  a  little,"  said 
Blake,  indifTereutly,  "  and  doing  a  little  in  the 
way  of  business.  I've  been  last  in  Switzer- 
land— I'll  give  an  account  of  myself,  some 
time.  And  what  have  you  been  doing  with 
yourself?  " 

"  Won't  you  take  something?  "  said  Hell- 
muth,  without  noticing  Blake's  last  remark. 
"I've  some  cognac  here." 

"  Cognac  1  what !  you  with  cognac  ?  "  said 
Blake,  in  evident  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ucllmuth.  "I've  had  to  come 
to  it." 

Saying  tliis,  ho  rose  from  his  chnir,  and 
going  to  a  closet  he  produced  u  tumbler, 
which  he  gravely  placed  on  the  table. 

"  Take  some,"  said  he. 

Blake  poured  out  a  little.  Uellmuth 
poured  out  half  a  tumblerful,  and  gulped  it 
down. 

"  You'd  bettor  smoke,"  said  lie. 

"  I  think  I  shall,"  said  Blake,  and,  produ- 
cing a  meerschaum  from  his  pocket,  he  filled 
uud  lighted  it.  Ilellrauth  lighted  his  also, 
and  soon  the  room  began  to  grow  somewhat 
cloudy.  Silence  now  followed  for  some  time, 
which  may  have  been  owing  to  the  occupa- 
tion afforded  by  the  process  of  smoking,  or 
may  have  been  caused  by  preoccupation  of 
mind  on  the  part  of  both  of  them. 

Kane  Uellmuth,  however,  seemed  more 
absorbed  in  his  jwn  thoughts  than  Blake. 
He  stretched  out  his  great,  long  legs,  leaned 
b.ack  his  head,  and,  with  eyes  half  closed, 
puffed  forth  great  volumes  of  smoke  toward 
the  ceiling.  Blake  lounged  on  the  sofa,  occa- 
sionally watching  the  form  of  the  other 
us  it  loomed  through  the  gathering  smoke- 
clouds,  lie  seemed  on  the  point  of  speaking 
several  times,  but  each  time  he  cheeked  him- 
self. 

The  silence  was  at  length  broken  by  Kane 
Uellmuth. 

"  Blake,"  said  he,  suddenly — and,  as  he 
said  this,  he  sat  upright  and  rigid,  fixing  his 
piercing  gray  eyes  on  his  friend. 

"Well,"  said  Blake,  unconsciously  rising 


out  of  his  lounging  position,  and  looking  up 
in  some  surprise. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  ghosts  ?  " 

"Ghosts,"  repeated  Blake — "  believe  in 
ghosts  ?  What  a  question !  Why,  man,  what 
do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean  this :  do  you  believe  in  ghosts  ?  " 

"Why  —  I  believe  in  —  apparitions,  of 
course — that  is — you  know — I  believe  that  in 
certain  abnormal  conditions  of  the  optio 
nerve — " 

"  Oh,  of  course — of  course,"  interrupted 
Kane  Uellmuth,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  "  I 
know  all  that — every  word  of  it.  All  jargon 
— nothing  but  words.  That  is  the  case 
wherever  science  deals  with  the  soul.  I  need 
not  have  asked  you  such  a  question.  You'ro 
a  materialist,  and  you  believe  nothing  but 
what  can  be  proved  by  experiment.  I  once 
had  the  same  belief.  But  let  me  tell  you,  my 
dear  boy,  your  materialism  is  only  good  for 
the  daylight  and  the  sunshine.  Wait  ti'J  it 
is  all  dark — outside  and  inside,  for  mind  and 
body — and  then  see  what  becomes  of  your 
materialism.    It  goes  to  the  dogs." 

"Teihap^  so,"  said  Blake;  "but,  at  any 
rate,  science  can  have  nothing  to  do  with  fan- 
cies. It  is  built  up  out  of  actual  facts.  Sci- 
ence is  not  poetry  or  superstition.  It  is  the 
truth,  whether  pleasant  or  unpleasant.  For 
my  part,  I  am  a  scientific  man,  and  nothing 
concerns  me  that  cannot  be  proved." 

"  Well,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  "  we  need 
not  argue.  I  might  say  that  science  is  in  ita 
infancy,  and  can  decide  nothing ;  that  there 
are  things  as  far  out  of  its  reach  aa  the 
heaven  is  beyond  the  earth,  but  what's  tb<' 
use?  I  come  back  to  myself.  I'm  glad  yoiri'o 
here,  Blake.  I've  got  an  infernal  load  on  my 
mind,  and  I  want  to  tell  it  to  somebody,  if 
it's  only  for  the  relief  that  one  feels  after  a 
clean  confession." 

Kane  llellmuth  drew  a  long  breath,  laid 
his  pipe  on  the  table,  and,  turning  his  eyes 
toward  where  Blake  was  sitting,  sat  for  some 
moments  in  silence,  staring  intently  before 
him.  It  was  not  at  Blake  that  he  was  look- 
ing, but  at  vacancy;  and  his  thoughts  were 
far  away  from  the  scene  immediately  be- 
fore him.  Blake  did  not  interrupt  him, 
but  sat  watching  hiin,  waiting  for  him  to 
speak. 

At  last  Kane  Hellm'xth  broke  the  silence. 
Ills  voice  was  harsh,  and  he  spoke  with  sol- 
emn and  impressive  emphasis. 


rr 


AN'   OPEV   QUESTION'. 


"  Iltiiko,''  saiil  lie,  k1ow1\,  "  I'm  a  lianiilcd 
man  1'' 

At  this  cxtmordirmry  reinnvk  ni:\ko'.s  fii'sU 
impulse  was  to  linif;li,  but  tliero  nn^  sonio- 
thing  in  the  oxprrssioii  of  Kiinn  llclliimtli's 
face  which  cheeked  tlie  rising  levity. 

"  The  eirciimstnnccs  nre  so  extraordinary," 
murraiircd  IlcUituith,  aH  tlK)iij;h  snliloqiu/ing, 
"and  it  has  been  repeated  so  often  that  it 
cannot  bo  explained  on  th'^  -round  of  fancy, 
or  of  liallucination.  Y'jU  see,  an  hallucination 
generally  arises  out  of  a  surrt.unding  of  ex- 
citing circumstanecp,  and  is  always  accom- 
panied by  some  degree  of  mystery,  unless,  of 
course,  as  you  said  a  little  while  ago,  the  optic 
nerve  is  immediately  all'eetcd  ;  but,  mind  you, 
my  boy,  you  take  .  thoroughly  healthy  man — 
a  man  of  iron  nerve,  elciir  hea<l,  practical 
xniiul,  strong  body — put  Ihat  man  in  a  pidilio 
street,  or  in  a  railway-train,  or  in  the  midst 
of  his  daily  duties,  and  say  would  it  be  pos- 
glble  for  such  a  man  to  be  subject  to  an  hal- 
lucination, and  to  experience  it,  not  oncn  but 
four  several  times, and  in  such  away  that  the 
form  presented  before  his  eyes  was  most  cer- 
tainly no  mere  apparition,  but  a  renl  exist- 
ence ?  " 

Kane  Tlellmulh  had  been  looking  a^  llin 
floor  as  1)  >  spoke,  and,  on  finislui:^.  raised 
his  eyes  with  earnest  and  solemn  inquiry  to 
Blake. 

Blake  made  no  an=wer.  ITo  was  not  pre- 
pared to  form  ary  reply. 

Kane  Flellmuth  was  puttint;  his  ease  very 
strongly,  but  Blake's  ignorance  of  all  the  cir- 
cumstances forced  him  to  wait  till  he  should 
hear  more. 

"  As  to  the  face,"  continued  Ilellmuth, 
onoo  more  lowering  his  eyes,  and  falling  into 
his  soliloquizing  tone,  "  there  is  no  possibility 
of  mistaking  it.  I.  can  belong  to  one,  and  to 
one  only.  The  features,  the  eyes,  the  expres- 
sion, could  by  no  possibility  belong  to  any 
other.  Yet  bow  this  can  be,  and  why  it  can 
bo,  I  cannot  comprehend." 

"  What  is  the  form  that  is  commonly  as- 
pnmcd  by  this — this — ah — appearance  that 
you  speak  of?"  asked  Blake,  as  Kane  Ilell- 
muth again  paused.  "  Is  there  only  one  ap- 
parition, with  only  one  shape,  or  are  there 
eevcral,  with  something  in  common?" 

"  There  is  onl<  one,"  said  Kane  Ilellmuth, 
solemnly.  "  It  is  always  the  same  featurc^, 
form,  and  dross." 

"Would  you  have  any  objection  to  tell 


what  it  is  like  ?  Is  it  a  man,  or  a  woman,  or 
a  cinld,  for  instance  1 " 

"  It  is  a  woman,"  said  Kano  Ilellmuth. 
"She  is  always  dre.''S(d  an  a  nun.  The  face 
i?  always  ilie  same,  and  bears  one  unehangofl 
expi-cssion." 

"  A  nun  !  "  said  Blake.  "  Tliat  would  bo 
a  black  dress.  I'ardon  nie  if  I  allude  to  spec- 
tral illusKjns,  but  have  um  ever  investigale<l 
the  subject  of  colors  «iih  regard  to  optical 
deluifions,  and  do  you  know  how  black  would 
alfvCt  such  illusions  f  " 

"  I  have  not." 

"Nor  have  I.  1  thought,  perhaps,  that 
the  suggestion  n>i|;ht  bo  worth  sometiiing." 

"No,"  said  Kano  Ilellmuth,  "it  is  worth 
nnlhing  in  thi^  ease,  for,  after  all,  th(!  dress 
is  the  least  iiuportant  part  of  this  visitor  of 
ndiie.  It  is  tlic  face — the  face,  the  features, 
the  look,  above  all,  the  eyes,  that  fix  them- 
selves upon  mc,  and  seem  to  penetrate  to  my 
inmost  soul." 

"  Is  this  face  tint  you  speak  of  at  '.1  fa- 
miliar— that  is  to  say,  does  it  look  like  any 
face  with  which  you  have  formerly  been  ac- 
quainted, or  is  it  some  perfectly  strange 
one  ?  " 

"  Familiar  ?"  exelaimod  Kaae  Ilellmuth. 
"It  is  oe.ly  too  familiar.  It  is  the  face  of 
one  who  has  been  associated  with  the  biight- 
est  and  the  darkest  moments  of  my  life — one 
who  was  more  to  me  than  all  the  world,  and 
whose  memory  is  ftill  dearer  to  me  than  all 
other  thoughts.  Years  ago  I  lost  her,  and 
that  loss  broke  up  all  my  life.  I  never  think 
it  worth  while,  Blake,  to  talk  about  so  unim- 
portant a  subject  as  myself;  but  I  may  re- 
mark Ihat  I  was  once  a  very  different  man 
from  what  I  now  am,  and  occupied  a  very  dil- 
fcrcnt  position.  She  was  with  mo  in  that  oUl 
life ;  but,  when  she  died,  I  died,  too.  I  am 
virtually  a  dead  mnn,  and  it  seems  that  I  hold 
communion  with  the  dead." 

To  Blako  this  strange  discourse  seemed 
like  the  ravings  of  incipient  insanity.  It  was 
unusu.ll  in  Kano  Ilellmuth,  who  had  all  along, 
ever  since  Blako  had  known  him,  been  distin- 
guished for  his  perfect  clear-headedness  and 
dry,  practical  nature.  Yet  now  it  seemed  as 
though  beneath  all  this  there  was  some  lurk- 
ing tendency  to  insanity,  and  that  Kane  IIoll- 
muth's  strong  intelleet  was  giving  way.  His 
strange  language,  and  his  fancy  that  the  dead 
had  appeared  to  him,  togei  ler  with  his  evi- 
dent liability  to  '-pcctral  •  hisions,  all  awak- 


/I 


I 


A   CURIOUS   FANCY". 


ui'  a  wonian,  or 

lino  ll(;l1muth. 
mm.  'I'bo  face 
one  unilmiigc'fl 

Tliat  would  bo 

allude  to  ppcc- 

icr  invosligiitcd 

;ai(l  to  optical 

)\v  bind;  >vouliJ 


,  p(M'liii]-s,  that 
soiriclhin|r." 
!i,  "  it  Is  worth 
•r  iill,  th(!  drr.=<4 
'  this  visitor  of 
.0,  tlio  features, 
tliat  lix  tluni- 
5rnctiftle  to  my 

ak  of  nt  '.l  fa- 
look  like  any 
•merly  bcrii  ac- 
rfcctly  strange 

[ane  IloUmutli. 
is  tlio  face  of 
vilh  the  biiglit- 
)f  my  life — one 
the  world,  and 
to  mc  than  all 
I  lost  licr,  and 
I  never  think 
abont  so  mum- 
but  I  may  rc- 
■  different  man 
pied  a  very  dif- 
mo  in  that  oUl 
cd,  too.     I  am 
ems  that,  I  hold 

;cour«:o  seemed 
siinity.  It  was 
0  bail  all  along, 
m,  been  distin- 
icadcduess  and 
V  it  seemed  aa 
vas  some  lurk- 
hat  Kane  Hell- 
ring  wiiy.  His 
J  tliat  the  dead 
r  with  his  cvi- 
ions,  all  awak- 


ened new  feoUnjss  in  I'dake'^i  mind,  and  he 
now  felt  anxious  to  learn  what  his  friend  be- 
lieved  had  appeared  to  him,  so  aa  to  »eo  tho 
direction  which  Ium  wnnderinq  finey  or  his 
disease  might  be  taking.  It  was  a  friendly 
eynipathy  with  such  an  affliction,  and  an 
earnest  desire  to  bo  of  some  service. 

"  Yes,"  continucil  Ilellniuth,  in  tho  same 
strain,  "  I  died  oneo.  V/o  died  together,  at 
tho  sumo  time.  I  am  nciv  dead,  in  law,  in 
reality,  virtually  dead — a  dead  man  !  And  it 
is  because  I  am  still  moving  about  among 
living  men,  I  daro  say,  tliat  slifi  comes  to  me 
now  to  warn  nie.  Last  night's  appearance 
showed  that  things  were  coming  to  a  climax." 

"  f-ast  night  ?  "  asked  lilake.  "  You  saw 
this  as  recently  as  lust  night,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Hellmutii,  "  for  that  matter  I 
sec  it  now — that  is  to  say,  I  have  so  vivid  a 
memory  of  it  that  by  shutting  my  eyes  noiv  I 
can  reproduce  it." 

"  How  tinny  times  have  you  seen  it  alto- 
gether ?  " 

"  Fi)ur  times." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  first  saw  it  ?  '' 

"  .Vbiiut  two  years  ago." 

"  Have  you  any  objection  to  tell  mo  tho 
kind  of  appe;iranee  which  presented  itself 
each  time,  and  tho  circumstances  under  which 
you  s^w  it?  " 

"Objections?  certainly  not;  I  am  anxious 
to  tell  you  exactly  how  it  was  in  each  case." 

Ilellmuth  drew  a  long  breath,  and  was  si- 
lent for  a  few  moments.     Ho  then  continued  : 

"  1  cunio  to  Paris  about  two  years  ago. 
Not  long  after  my  arrival  hero  I  went  to 
Nolrc-Dame.  I  went  to  hear  Pero  Ilyacinthe. 
I  was  a  great  admirer  of  his.  There  was  an 
immense  crowd  there,  as  usual.  I  was  in  tho 
miilst  of  it  when  it  parted  to  make  way  for  a 
procession.  At  that  moment  I  saw,  straight 
in  front  of  me,  just  across  tho  space  made 
for  the  procession,  not  more  than  six  feet 
away,  tho  figure  of  a  nun  !  Sho  was  clothed 
in  black  from  head  to  foot.  Iler  flico  was 
turned  to  rac,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
mine  with  a  burning  intensity  of  gaze  that 
penelrated  to  my  inmost  soul.  The  face  was 
full  of  unutterable  sadness  and  mournfulness, 
and  there  was  also  in  it  a  deep  and  overpow- 
ering reproachfulncss.  I  cannot  describe  it 
at  all.  There,  however,  was  this  black  nun 
with  the  pale  face  of  death  opposite  me,  with- 
in reach,  standing  there,  motionless  ns  a 
statue,  with  her  eyes,  full  of  a  terrible  fa.-cina- 


tion,  filed  on  mine.  It  waH  the  figure,  tho 
fnoe,  the  look,  tlio  eyes,  the  attitude,  ami  tho 
expression  of  my  dead  wife  !  " 

Kane  Ilellmuth  looked  at  Blake  with  a 
gaxe  that  seemed  to  search  out  tlie  thoughts 
of  the  other,  and  again  paused  for  a  few  tno- 
mcntH. 

"  Well,"  ho  resumed,  "  I  need  not  enlarge 
on  my  own  feelings.  Words  are  useless.  I 
will  only  say  that  this  figure  thus  stood,  mo- 
tionless, looking  at  me,  and  I  stood,  motion- 
less, looking  at  her,  across  this  space  that 
seemed  to  have  opened  on  puqioso  to  disclose 
her  to  me  ;  and  the  time  seemed  long,  yet  it 
could  not  have  been  longer  than  was  neces- 
sary to  allow  the  procession  to  come  six  feet 
or  so.  Tho  procession  rr^  \  cd  on,  and,  in  tho 
smoke  of  incense,  and  Uio  confusion  of  tho 
crowd,  the  figure  was  lost  to  sight.  After 
the  procession  had  passed,  I  looked  overj"- 
where,  but  saw  nothing  more  of  it. 

"  I  must  say  that  I  was  very  much  upset 
by  this ;  but  the  habit  of  scientifio  thought 
came  to  my  aid,  and  I  accounted  foi  it  in 
various  wnys-auch  ways  as  you  would  sug- 
gest to  explain  away  what  you  consider  the 
fancies  of  a  disordered  brain.  Still,  I  knew 
perfectly  vrell  that  my  brain  was  not  in  the 
slightest  degree  disordered,  and  so  I  fell  back, 
or  tried  to  fall  back,  upon  the  theory  that  it 
was  some  chance  resemblance  that  had  so 
affected  me.  Various  things  affected  my  be- 
lief ir  this ;  but,  nevertheless,  it  seemed  the 
only  terrible  one,  but  the  impression  produced 
on  me  was  deep,  and  seemed  likely  to  be  last- 
ing. 

"  Well,  several  months  passed  away,  and 
at  length  I  had  occasion  to  take  a  run  over 
to  England.  It  was  early  morning.  The 
train  in  which  I  was  had  gone  about  ten 
miles,  and  reached  a  small  station,  the  name 
of  which  I  forget.  Another  train  was  stop- 
ping there,  and,  just  as  wo  came  in,  it  was 
beginning  to  move  out.  I  was  sitting  on  the 
side  next  to  the  other  train,  carelessly  look- 
ing out  of  tho  window.  I  was  facing  the  en- 
gine, so  that  the  other  train  moved  toward 
me,  and  thus  I  ilirc^w  my  eyes  over  the  pas- 
sengers as  they  passed  by.  Suddenly  my 
gaze  was  riveted  by  a  face  which  was  turned 
toward  me.  It  was  on  the  other  train.  Tt 
was  a  nun — the  same  nun — the  same  face, 
the  same  look,  tho  same  expression,  the  same 
eyes  ;  and  they  fastened  themselves  on  mine 
with  the  same  burning  intensity  of  gaze  which 


40 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION, 


:! 


I  had  noticed  at  Notre-Dame.  At  this  sec- 
ond meeting  I  felt  even  more  overwhelmed 
than  on  the  first  occasion.  Again  the  time 
seemed  very  long  in  which  those  eyes  held 
mine  in  the  spell  of  their  terrible  fascination ; 
yet  it  could  not  have  lasted  longer  than  the 
brief  moment  that  was  requisite  for  the  other 
train  to  pass  us. 

"After  this  second  visitation,  I  confess 
I  felt  more  bewildered  than  ever.  I  gave  up 
ray  journey  to  England,  and,  quitting  the 
train  at  Amiens,  I  came  back  here.  If  the 
first  sight  of  this  nun  figure  bad  been  un- 
accountable, this  second  one  was  even  more 
so.  Several  months  mure  now  passed  away, 
and  I  can  only  say  that  I  remained  in  a  state 
of  perfect  bewilderment  as  to  the  cause  of  the 
two  appearances  which  I  have  described.  I 
began  now  .'o  think  that,  since  I  bad  seen  it 
twice,  I  might  see  it  again,  and  was  conscious 
of  an  uneasy  otate  of  mind,  in  which  I  folt 
myself  to  bo  constantly  on  the  lookout. 
Thus  far  it  had  appeared  in  the  midst  of 
crowds,  and  by  daylight ;  the  next  time  it 
carae  it  might  appear  in  solitude,  and  amid 
the  darkness.  The  thought  was  not  a  pleas- 
ant one,  and  yet  I  cannot  say  that  I  felt  ex- 
actly afraid.  It  was  more  awe  than  fear,  to- 
gether with  a  decided  reluctance  to  be  sub- 
jected to  any  further  visitation. 

"  At  length  it  came  again.  It  was  during 
the  ]a.at  fete  NapoUon.  It  was  a  little  after 
nine  in  the  ever  Ing.  I  was  seated  in  front 
of  th"  f'-fe  Vigny,  on  the  Boulevard  de  la 
Madeleine.  I  was  smolring,  and  indolently 
watching  the  crowd  of  people  that  streamed 
by,  and  listening  to  the  confused  murmur  of 
idle  chat  or  noisy  altercation  that  rose  all 
around  me.  The  crowd  was  immense ;  ard 
the  passl  ig  forms,  the  rolling  carriages,  the 
noise,  tumult,  music,  and  laughter,  all  served 
to  draw  my  mind  out  of  certtin  thoughts  over 
which  it  had  been  brooding  somewhnt  too 
much. 

"  It  was  at  this  moment,  and  in  this  place, 
then,  sitting  there  smoking,  amid  the  sur- 
roundings of  cvery-day  life,  and  the  flare  of 
prosaic  gas-lights,  thst  I  saw  it  apain.  It 
passed  along  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk.  I 
was  looking  toward  the  othei  side  of  the 
street  when  It  gl'ded  into  oiglit.  It  moved 
slowly  along  with  a  solemn  stop ;  and,  as  it 
moved,  it  turned  its  face  and  fixed  its  eyes 
full  upon  me.  Jt  was  the  same  figure — the 
black  nun's  dress — and  the  same  look,  inex- 


pressibly sad,  despairing,  and  reproachful. 
It  did  not  stop,  but  moved  along,  and  was 
gradually  lost  in  the  crowd. 

"There  was  something  about  its  glance 
that  thrilled  through  me,  and  seemed  to  take 
away  all  my  strength.  I  felt  as  before — pet- 
rified. I  longed  to  advance  toward  it,  and 
find  out  for  myself  whether  this  shape  was 
corporeal  or  incorporeal.  I  could  not.  Even 
after  it  harl  passed  I  felt  unable  to  move  for 
some  time.  When  at  length  I  was  able  to 
rise  from  my  seat,  I  went  off  after  it  in  the 
direction  which  it  had  taken,  but  I  could  not 
find  out  any  thing  whatever  about  it,  cr  sec 
any  figure  whatever  that  bore  the  slightest  re- 
semblance to  it." 

K.ane  Ilellmutli  fixed  his  eyes  more  sol- 
emnly than  ever  on  Blake,  and,  after  a  siiort 
sUence,  continued : 

"Last  night  I  saw  it  once  more.  But 
there  are  certain  circumstances  connected 
with  this  fourth  meeting  which  cannot  be  en- 
teliigible  to  you  without  further  explanation. 
I  think  I  shall  have  to  trouble  you  with  an 
accoun  of  my  past  to  some  extent,  if  you 
care  to  listen,  and  don't  feel  bored  already." 

"  My  dear  old  boy,"  said  Blake,  earnestly, 
"I  shall  fe-l  only  too  glad  to  get  the  confi- 
dence of  a  mar.  like  you." 


CHAPTER   X. 

TP.ifi  ?•»■... I.  DBAOGHT. 

Blake  d.*ew  himself  nearer  to  his  friend, 
in  the  inl'nsity  of  the  curiosity  that  was  by 
this  time  awakened  within  him.  Kane  Ilell- 
rautl'  iose  ;o  his  feet,  poured  out  a  glass  of 
rav  cognac,  drank  it  down,  and  then,  resum- 
ing 111:  spnt,  ho  sat  erect,  with  his  eyes  fiy.el 
on  vacancy. 

"Wlien  I  say,"  began  Ku.  e  Ile'imuth, 
"  that  I  nm  at  this  moment  a  dtad  man,  and 
that  I  died  ten  years  ago,  you  think,  of 
(•rursc,  cither  that  I  am  using  figurative  Ian- 
f.uage,  or  else  that  I  am  showing  signs  of  in- 
3anity.  Neither  of  these  is  the  case,  how- 
ever.  When  you  hear  what  I  have  to  say, 
you  will  perceive  that  these  words  are  true, 
and  actually  describe  my  present  con>"ition. 

"It  is  a  little  more  than  ten  years  ago 
that  I  was  married.  My  wife  was  an  English 
pirl.  She  was  at  a  peniionnai  in  this  city, 
(jirls  in  this  country  are  seldom  allowed  any 


m: 


nd   reproachful, 
along,  and  was 

bout  its  glance 
Bcemed  to  take 
as  before — pct- 
toward  it,  and 
this  shape  was 
30uld  not.  Even 
able  to  move  for 

1  I  was  able  to 
f  after  it  in  the 

but  I  could  not 
about  it,  or  see 

2  the  slightest  re- 

3  eyes  more  sol- 
nd,  after  a  short 

once  more.  But 
,ancf;8  connected 
ch  cannot  be  en- 
ther  explanation, 
ible  you  with  an 
le  extent,  if  you 
bored  already." 
Blake,  earnestly, 
I  to  get  the  confi. 


X. 

.CGHT. 

irer  to  his  friend, 
iosity  that  was  by 
him.  Kane  Ilell- 
!d  out  a  glass  of 
,  and  then,  resum- 
ffith  his  eyes  &Tci 

I  K..  0  Ue'lmuth, 
a  dtad  man,  and 
;o,  you  think,  of 
ing  figurative  Ian- 
owing  signs  of  in- 
is  the  case,  how- 
lat  I  have  to  say, 
36  words  are  true, 
irescnt  cont'ition. 
han  ten  years  ago 
rife  was  an  English 
onnat  in  this  city, 
■eldom  allowed  any 


(r> 


r       '!    i 


ii;     I 


I 


"&■ 


THE  FATAL  DRAUGHT. 


41 


liberty  before  marriage  ;  but  she  was  an  Eng- 
lish girl,  and  for  that  reason,  perhaps,  was 
allowed  a  fur  greater  degree  of  freedom  than 
would  otherwise  hare  been  possible.  I  be- 
cumo  acquainted  with  her  through  the  me- 
dium of  an  English  family — people,  by-tlie- 
way,  whom  I  thought  very  singular  associates 
for  one  liko  her.  She  was  about  seventeen, 
fair,  fragile,  innocent  as  an  angel.  The  first 
time  that  I  saw  her,  I  loved  her  most  pas- 
sionately. I  was  able  to  see  her  frequently, 
and  at  length  induced  her  to  marry  me. 

"  I  had  nothing  whatever  to  marry  on.  I 
was  at  that  time  a  mad  spendthrift ;  and, 
though  I  began  life  with  a  handsome  allow- 
ance as  second  son,  I  soon  spent  it  all,  and 
had  plunged  head  over  heels  in  debt.  Ify 
father  paid  my  debts  once,  and  died  soon 
after.  My  elder  brother  would  do  nothing 
for  mo,  and  so  I  soon  found  myself  in  a  des- 
perate position.  I  had  to  leave  England,  and 
come  here.  Here  my  bad  habits  followed  me, 
and  I  soon  found  myself  involved  as  heavily 
as  ever.  It  was  under  these  circumstances 
that  I  had  the  madness  to  get  married,  and 
drag  another  down  into  the  abyss  in  which  I 
was. 

"  She  was  an  orphan.  She  had  lost  her 
mother  four  years  before.  Her  father  was 
broken-hearted,  and  left  the  country.  She 
heard  of  his  death  soon  after.  She  had  been 
at  this  boarding-school  ever  since.  She  had 
a  guardian.  There  had  been  a  sister  in  her 
family,  a  mere  child,  who  had  also  died. 
Thus  she  was  alono  in  the  world,  and  under 
the  authority  of  a  guardian  whom  she  had 
never  seen  but  once,  and  who  took  not  the 
slightest  interest  in  her.  She  had  no  future 
before  her,  and  loved  me  as  passionately  as  I 
loved  her,  and  was  therefore  quite  willing  to 
be  mine. 

"  Well,  I  had  a  little  money  about  me, 
and  with  this  I  started  on  a  bridal  tour.  AVe 
went  to  Italy,  and  spent  three  months  there 
— three  months  of  perfect  happinrss — three 
months  which,  in  so  miserable  a  life  as  mine 
has  been,  seem  now  like  a  heaven  of  bliss,  as 
I  look  back.  I  drove  away  all  thoughts  of 
ray  circumstances.  I  gave  myself  up  alto- 
gether to  the  joy  of  the  present.  I  would 
not  let  the  cares  of  the  future  interfere  for 
one  moment  with  the  happiness  which  I  had 
with  her.  I  knew  that  there  would  have  to 
be  an  end,  but  waited  till  the  end  should 
come. 


"  At  length,  the  beginning  of  the  end  ap. 
proached,  and  I  began  to  see  the  necessity 
of  exertion  of  some  sort.  I  had  already 
written  to  the  guardian,  acquainting  him  with 
the  marriage.  I  now  wrote  to  him  a  second 
time.  He  had  taken  no  notice  whatever  of 
the  first  letter,  which  excited  my  suspicions 
that  he  was  inclined  to  be  severe  on  us.  I 
had  an  idea,  however,  that  he  might  have 
some  property  belonging  to  my  wife,  and 
wished  to  know  what  there  was  to  rely  on. 

"  Paris  was  not  a  very  pleasant  place  for 
one  in  my  circumstances,  nor  was  it  safe  for 
me  to  go  there ;  but  I  risked  all,  and  went 
there,  expecting  that  the  guardian  would 
prove  amiable,  and  trusting  to  the  chapter 
of  accidents.  While  I  was  about  it,  I  wrote 
also  to  my  elder  brother,  telling  him  that  I 
was  nir-KJed,  that  I  intended  to  lead  a  new 
life,  and  asking  him  to  use  his  iuliuence  to 
get  me  some  office. 

"I  got  my  brother's  answer  first.  He 
Iiad  always  felt  a  grudge  against  me,  because 
my  father  had  once  paid  my  debts.  It  seemed 
as  though  so  much  hud  been  taken  from  him. 
1  never  knew  bcfori>  nhat  an  avaricious  and 
cold-hearted  nature  had.  If  I  had  known 
it,  I  would  not  have  written.  His  letter  was 
perfectly  devilish.  He  sneered  at  my  mar- 
riage,  and  lamented  that  his  cirei. instances 
would  not  allow  him  to  do  the  same,  remind- 
ed me  of  all  my  shortcomings,  threw  ui  the 
old  grudge  about  my  debts,  and  told  me  that 
with  my  talents  I  should  have  won  a  rich 
wife.  Such  was  his  letter.  It  prepared  me 
for  worse  things,  and  these  soon  came  to 
pass. 

"  On  my  arrival  at  Paris,  my  creditors  all 
assailed  me,  of  course.  I  went  to  seo  the 
chief  ones,  and  gave  them  to  understand  that 
my  wife  had  money,  and  that,  when  I  could 
come  to  terms  with  her  guardian,  I  would 
settle  every  thing.  The  thing  seemed  plausi- 
ble to  them,  and  they  consented  to  wait.  It 
was  a  lie,  of  course ;  but,  when  a  man  is  hi 
debt,  there  is  no  lie  which  he  will  not  tell  to 
fight  off  his  creditors.  The  course  of  a  fail- 
ing merchant,  or  a  gentleman  going  to  ruin, 
is  generally  one  prolonged  lie. 

"At  length,  wearied  with  waiting,  I  wrote 
once  more  to  the  guardian,  telling  him  that, 
if  I  did  not  hear  from  him,  I  would  bring  my 
wife,  visit  him  in  person,  and  force  him  to 
render  an  account  of  her  affairs. 

"  This  time  I  got  an  answer ;  it  was  not 


!l 


Mr 


' 


42 


AX   OPEN  QUESTIOX. 


very  lonp.  lie  said  that  ny  wife  had  no 
fortune  at  all  for  which  to  render  an  account, 
that  she  had  been  naaintained  at  his  expense 
thus  far,  and  lie  had  hoped  that  Bhe  would  do 
far  better  for  Iierstlf  than  she  had  done.  Her 
marriage  witliout  his  consent,  ho  declared, 
had  destroyed  all  claims  that  she  might  hare 
on  his  consideration.  Ho  cast  her  off,  and 
thought  it  but  just  that  the  man  who  had 
stolen  her  should  support  hn  In  answer  to 
my  threat  about  coming  in  person,  he  merely 
remarlied  that  for  one  in  ray  position  England 
■would  hardly  be  a  desirable  place  to  visit. 

"  111  news  soon  spreads.  This  break-up 
of  my  last  hope  became  gradually  known. 
It  may  have  been  gathered  from  my  own 
wofds  or  manner ;  but,  whatever  the  cause 
was,  it  was  certainly  foun<l  out,  and  I  soon 
began  to  feci  the  efl'ects  of  it.  Tiic  crowd  of 
clamorous  and  hungry  creditors  gathered 
thick  around  me,  and  ruin,  utter  and  abso- 
lute, was  inevitable.  I  had  no  more  money ; 
I  could  not  even  fly,  for  I  was  watched,  and 
could  not  buy  my  tickets.  I  owed  my  land- 
lord, who  also  was  as  clamorous  as  the  rest. 
One  day  more,  and  I  should  be  thrown  into 
prison,  with  no  hope  of  escape.  I  should  be 
torn  from  my  wife  forever.  And  slie — what 
would  become  of  her?  She  whom  I  had 
guarded  so  tenderly  —  she  who  had  never 
known  what  it  was  to  struggle  for  herself, 
Avith  all  her  youth  and  beauty  and  innocence 
— what  could  she  do,  if  I  was  torn  from  her, 
n  she  was  driven  from  the  boarding-house 
into  tlio  streets,  alone,  penniless,  alone  in  a 
great  ci(y,  and  that  city  Taris?  There  was 
hell  in  that  thought. 

"  Such  was  my  position.  For  me  there 
was  ruin — imprisonment  perhaps  for  life — 
eternal  separation  from  my  wile  ! — for  licr  a 
fate  worse  ten  thousand  times — the  hideous 
fate  which  awaits  the  unprotected  innocent  in 
a  city  like  Paris.  Thus  the  crisis  had  come. 
One  day  more  would  decide  all.  The  landlord 
had  threatened  me  with  ejection  and  arre:  t. 
One  day  niorc  would  pUmge  me  into  a  prisou- 
cell,  and  throw  ray  wife  on  the  streets.  AVo 
had  no  friends.  She  was  alone  in  the  world. 
So  was  I.  Slic  loved  me  so  passionately  tliat 
separation  from  mo  would  be  death  to  her — 
death?  that  would  be  the  lightest  of  the  evils 
that  awaitcil  her." 

Kane  Holhnuth  paused.  lie  had  Fpokcn 
tlnis  far  in  low  but  Tehomcnt  tones,  and, 
though  he  tried  to  rcstrairi  himself,  there  were 


visible  marks  of  the  intense  agitation  of  feel- 
ing that  was  called  up  by  all  these  bitter 
memories.  He  sat  erect  and  rigid,  with  his 
eyes  fi.\ed  gloomily  before  him,  and  his  hands 
clutching  the  arras  of  his  chair.  But  the 
hands  that  grasped  the  chair  were  strained  to 
whiteness  by  the  convulsive  energy  of  that 
presiuro ;  and  his  brow  lowered  into  a  frown 
as  black  as  night;  while  on  his  face  the 
brown,  weather  -  beaten  complexion  had 
changed  to  a  dull,  ghantly  pallor. 

"Death!"  he  repeated.  "Yes,  death! 
If  I  had  been  torn  from  her,  and  flung  into 
prison,  I  should  have  killed  some  one,  and 
have  destroyed  myself.  Arrest  was  death. 
I'or  my  wife  there  was  no  better  fate.  For 
her  the  best  thing  tliat  could  take  place  was 
death.  Death  was  before  us  in  any  case,  and 
therefore  the  quo.«tion  in  my  mind  became 
reduced  to  this:  How  shall  this  death,  which 
is  inevitable,  be  best  encountered  ? 

"  These  thoughts  had  been  coming  to  me 
gradually,  and  out  of  these  thoughts  came 
this  conclusion.  It  took  shape  when  my 
brother's  letter  came,  and  assumed  a  final  and 
definite  form  when  I  received  tlie  answer  from 
the  guanlian.  For  myself  it  was  easy  to 
decide — but  in  this  case  I  had  more  than  my- 
self to  consider.  My  wife.  How  could  she 
bear  the  thought?  Or  how  could  she  receive 
the  communication  wliich  I  wished  to  convey 
when  it  was  one  like  this  ? 

"  Thus  fir  she  had  known  nothing  except 
that  I  loved  her.  I  had  not  shared  with  her 
a  single  Olio  of  my  cares.  I  had  spared  }<t 
all  unnecef'Muy  distress.  In  my  own  anguish 
it  pleased  me  to  see  her  innocent  happiness, 
to  listen  to  her  bright  plans  for  the  future,  to 
watch  the  expression  of  her  elofiuent  face  as 
she  talked  with  me.  Never  was  tliere  a  man 
more  devotedly  loved — more  adored  than  I 
was  by  her.  The  whole  wealth  of  a  loving 
nature  she  poured  forth  to  me.  She  had  not 
one  single  thought  apart  from  mo.  Iler  love 
was  like  worshin  in  its  devotion,  but  it  had 
the  warmth  and  the  glow  oi  human  passion. 

"  But  the  communication  which  I  longed 
to  make  was  made  at  last.  It  had  to  be  made. 
It  was  the  day — the  Inst  day  of  our  freedom. 
The  next  day  was  to  ( i m1  ail.  It  was  early  in 
the  morning.  I  had  not  slept  all  ninht  long. 
In  the  morning  she  told  mo  that  she  had  not 
slept.  Then  nho  looked  at  mo  with  unutter- 
able mournfulness.  Wo  wore  sitting  at  the 
bieakfaat-tablc  at  that  time.    Slie  looked  at 


1 


1^      4 


THE  FATAL   DRAUGHT. 


gitation  of  fecl- 
ill   these   bitter 

rigid,  with  his 
1,  and  his  hands 
;'hair.  But  tlic 
H'cre  strained  to 

energy  of  thai 
red  into  a  frown 
m  Ilia  face  the 
mplexion  had 
or. 
"  Yes,  death  ! 

and  tlung  into 

Bomc  one,  and 
-est  was  death. 
ettiT  fate.     I''or 

talic  place  was 
in  any  ease,  and 
Y  mind  became 
lis  death,  wiiich 
3red  ? 
1  coming  to  me 

thoughts  came 
hape  when  my 
imcd  a  final  and 
;lio  answer  from 
it  was  easy  to 
I  more  than  niy- 
IIow  could  she 
lujii  she  receive 
ishcd  to  convey 

nothing  except 
harcd  with  her 
liad  spared  '">r 
iiy  own  anguish 
cent  happiness, 
)r  the  future,  to 
lofpicnt  face  as 
tas  there  a  man 
adored  than  I 
1th  of  a  loving 
s.  She  ha<l  not 
mo.  Her  love 
tioM,  but  it  luid 
unian  passion, 
which  I  longed 
had  to  be  made, 
of  our  freedom. 
It  was  curly  in 
I  all  niiiht  long, 
lat  she  had  not 
no  with  unuttor- 
c  sitting  at  the 
She  looked  at 


mo  as  I  have  said,  and  then  with  a  sudden  im- 
pulse she  flung  her  arms  about  me,  and,  bury- 
ing  her  face  on  my  breast,  burst  into  tears. 

"I  paid  nothing.  These  were  her  first 
tears  with  mo.  I  dared  not  even  soothe  her, 
for  fear  lest  I  should  be  unmanned. 

"At  length  she  overcame  her  feelings. 
She  raised  herself,  and,  looking  at  mo  with 
intense  earnestness,  she  began  to  speak,  in  a 
low,  calm  voice,  in  wliich  there  was  not  a 
trace  of  emotion. 

" '  You  arc  keeping  from  me  some  terrible 
secret,'  said  she,  '  and  I  am  miserable.  What 
is  it  that  is  on  your  mind  ?  There  is  noth- 
ing that  you  need  not  tell  mo.  There  is  only 
one  thing  that  could  bo  a  calamity  to  me — to 
lose  your  love.  And  I  have  not  lost  that  yet 
— have  I,  darling  ?  ' 

"  As  she  siiid  this,  I  drew  her  close  to 
mo,  and  pressed  her  to  my  heart.  And  tlien 
I  told  her  all.  I  told  her,  looking  ii\to  her 
eyes,  and  watching  her  face.  She  listened  in 
silence. 

"  I  told  her  what  was  before  us.  ...  I 
told  her  what  there  was — for  her — and  for  me 
— prison — death — worse.  .  .  . 

"  Finally,  I  told  her  what  I  had  thought  of  as 
an  escape  for  both  of  us.  ...  I  tried  to  light- 
en the  blow,  by  speaking  of  our  eternal  union 
hereafter — to  be  secured  by  leaving  this  life 
together. 

"  Siie  was  terribly  agitated.  So  sudden  had 
been  this  revelation !  It  was  too  sudden.  In 
my  own  excitement  at  that  time  I  did  not  no- 
tice it  so  much  ;  but  in  the  years  that  have 
elapsed  since  then,  I  have  recalied  every  look 
of  hers,  every  act,  every  word.  Above  all,  I 
have  been  haunted  by  that  first  look  that  was 
called  up  on  her  f>ce — that  look  of  mourn- 
fiiliicss  iiicTpressihlo — of  despair — of  mute 
reproach — all  of  whieh  were  in  her  face — and 
♦1^0  burning  intensity  of  gaze  with  which  her 
sad,  earnest  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  mine. 
She  ching  to  mo.  She  again  hid  her  face  on 
my  breast.  She  wept  there  long;  and  all  the 
tiine  1  t.ilked  on.  I  carcscd  In  r.  I  tried  to 
console  her  as  best  I  could. 

"  At  length  she  raised  herself  again,  and 
looked  at  me  with  unutterable  love  anfl  devo- 
tion ;  her  voice  was  calm  again.  She  told 
me  she  would  do  whatever  I  proposed — that 
she  was  mine,  body  and  soul— for  this  life  and 
■  the  next — that  life  without  me  was  impossi- 
ble— that  if  I  were  torn  from  her  she  would 
die — that  she  would  rather  die  with  mo  than 


away  from  me — and  to  die  together  would  bo 
sweet,  since  we  had  to  die. 

"  All  these  sweet  and  loving  words  filled 
me  with  delight  and  enthusiasm.  I  began  to 
speak  about  the  life  to  which  wo  were  going, 
and,  as  I  had  filled  my  head  with  the  senti- 
mental ravings  of  French  novelists,  I  had  no 
lack  of  assurance  as  to  the  immediate  bliss  that 
awaited  us  in  spite  of  such  a  mode  of  departure 
from  this  life.  To  all  this  she  listened  quiet- 
ly. She  did  not  share  my  enthusiasm.  Her 
religious  training  must  have  made  it  seem 
false  to  her.  But,  in  her,  love  triumphed  over 
religion,  and  she  consented  to  die  because  I 
asked  her.  She  did  not  expect  to  go  to  heav- 
en; that  is  evident  to  me  now;  but  she  only 
wished  to  go  with  me  wherever  I  should  go — 
or  wherever  I  should  send  her.  There  was  in 
her  heart  the  stimulus  of  a  glorious  purpose 
— of  v.'hich  I  knew  nothing,  but  which  had 
occurred  to  her  then,  and  animated  her  to  the 
task." 

K.ano  Ilellinuth  stopped  abruptly,  and, 
closing  his  eyes,  lot  his  head  fall  forward  on 
his  breast.  He  was  overcome  by  his  feelings, 
and  by  the  throng  of  dark  memories  whicii 
were  gathering  around  him  ;  and  waited  for  a 
while  to  collect  his  thoughts  and  his  strength 
before  relating  the  end.  Blake  watched  him 
in  silence,  with  a  face  full  of  a  mournful  in- 
terest. At  last  Ilellmuth  raised  his  head  and 
went  on,  speaking  very  rapidly  : 

"Slie  said  that  it  would  be  sweet  to  di? 
for  me,  and  that  she  would  only  take  the  fatal 
draught  from  my  hand.  She  said  that  sho 
would  give  me  my  draught.  Thus,  sho  said, 
wo  would  avoid  the  gnilt  of  suicide.  It 
seemed  then  like  the  sweet  casuistry  of  love  ; 
but  rdtvo  then  I  have  known  that  it  was  an 
act  of  divine  self-sacrifice,  the  sudden  im- 
pulse of  devoted  love,  that  throw  her  own  life 
away  in  calm  self-abnegation;  and  sought  to 
find  a  way  to  save  roe  by  the  sacrifice  of  her- 
self. But  I  suspected  nothing  then.  I  let 
her  do  as  she  chose.  I  put  the  phial  of  poison, 
which  I  had  procured  already,  in  her  hand, 
and  she  went  to  the  sideboard  and  poured  it 
out  in  two  glasses.  Then  she  came  back  and 
placeil  them  on  the  table.  Sho  handed  one 
to  mo  and  I  handed  the  other  to  her.  Then 
we  sat  looking  at  one  another  for  some  time. 
She  was  now  trembling  violently.  I  took  her 
hand  and  helil  it,  hoping  thus  to  strengthen 
her.  In  vain.  I  began  to  falter  ot  the  sight 
of  her  great  distress.    But  at  that  moment  I 


"'% 


44 


AN   OPEN    QUESTION. 


i 


I       1 


was  roused  by  a  noise  at  the  door.  I  thouglit 
nt  oiico  of  the  ofTicers  of  the  law,  ai^d  the 
landlord,  and  hurried  there  to  sec  who  it  was. 
I  saw  no  one.  Then  I  came  back — and  this 
last  alarm  restored  my  resolution.  I  took  her 
hand — and  we  both  drank.  .  .  ." 

Again  Kane  IlellmulU  paused,  and  it  was 
now  a  long  time  before  he  went  on. 

"  This  is  what  I  mean,"  he  resumed  in  a 
hoarse  voice,  "  when  I  say  that  I  died  then, 
and  am  a  dead  man  now.  Out  of  that  death 
I  revived.  I  found  myself  in  a  hospital,  just 
emerging  from  a  burning  fever.  I  learned 
that  I  bad  been  there  for  months.  It  was 
months  before  I  was  able  to  leave.  I  learned 
that  I  had  been  sent  here.  And  where  was 
she  ?  Who  had  buried  her  ?  Dow  had  I 
escaped  ? 

"  For  days  and  weeks  there  was  but  one 
thought  on  my  mind.    How  had  I  escaped  ? 

"And  gradually  there  came  t*^  me  a 
thought  that  made  life  more  intolerable  than 
ever.  I  saw  it  all  at  last,  I  recognized  her 
loving  purpose,  in  her  proposal  to  give  me  my 
draught.  She  had  designed  to  save  me.  She 
would  die — willingly,  since  I  wished  it;  glad- 
ly, since  death  would  be  administered  by  me. 
She  would  die ;  but,  nevertheless,  she  would 
save  me,  and  this  was  her  sweet  deceit — to 
give  nie  a  draught  which  should  produce 
senselessness,  out  of  which  I  might  come 
back  to  life,  while  she  would  go  where  I  sent 
her. 

"  I  thought  also  that  I  could  see  another 
reason.  She  had  understood  from  my  words, 
no  doubt,  that  she  had  reduced  me  to  this. 
She  saw  that  my  care  was  for  her,  and  that, 
were  it  not  for  her,  I  should  not  die  —  or 
think  of  dying.  Alone,  I  could  live ;  but  I 
could  not  support  her.  This,  no  doubt,  she 
•  saw,  although  no  such  thought  ever  came  to  my 
mind.  This  she  saw,  and  therefore  she  died. 
— Yes.  Rasil  Blake — look  on  me,  and  recog- 
nize a  villain  who  has  done  to  death  the 
most  loving  wife  that  ever  gave  her  heart  to 
man.  She  died,  that  I  might  live;  that  I 
might  be  free  from  what  she  supposed  was 
an  incumbrance  to  me  in  my  poverty.  Ah, 
now — how  well  I  understand  that  look  which 
Blie  gave  me  when  first  I  communicated  to 
her  my  fatal  plan  I  Ah,  great  Heaven  I 
AVhy  did  death  reject  Tvz'  What  business 
have  I  in  life  ? 

"  The  moment  mat  I  was  able,  I  fled  from 
Paris.     I  considered  myself  dead.    I  resolved 


to  begin  a  new  life.  You  wonder  that  I 
didn't  kill  myself.  I  wonder  too.  At  any 
rate,  I  considered  myself  a  dead  man.  My 
name  is  not  IlellnuUh  ;  what  it  used  to  be  is 
no  matter.  It  is  Ilellmuth  now.  Once  only 
did  I  make  use  of  the  old  name.  It  was  in  a 
letter  which  I  wrote  to  the  guardian.  I  found 
myself  cherishing  a  faint  hope  that  she  might 
have  escaped.  I  wrote  to  him,  telling  him 
briefly  what  had  happened.  After  some  de- 
lay, I  received  an  answer.  It  destroyed  my 
last  hope.  It  informed  me  that  my  wife  was 
dead  ;  that  she  was  found  dead  in  the  room 
on  that  morning;  and  that  she  was  buried 
in  rerc-la-Chaise,  through  the  pity  of  some 
one  of  the  creditors  who  had  relented  at  the 
sight  of  the  ruin  which  had  resulted  from  my 
vicious  and  guilty  extr.avagance. 

"After  this,  I  became  a  wanderer.  I 
worked  with  my  own  hands  to  get  my  living. 
I  have  been  over  all  the  world  as  a  common 
seaman.  I  have  worked  as  a  laborer.  About 
two  years  ago  I  came  back  to  Paris,  feeling 
an  uncontrollable  desire  to  visit  her  grave. 
It  is  at  P(irc-la-Chaise.  I  go  there  often.  It 
is  a  simple  slab  bearing  her  name,  with  the 
date  of  her  death. 

"  And  now,"  continued  Kane  Ilellmuth, 
"  you  will  be  able  to  understand  the  full  sig- 
nificance of  what  I  spoke  of  first.  That 
black  nun  is  th3  form  and  face  of  her  who  is 
buried  in  Perc-la-Chaise.  The  expression 
on  her  face  is  precisely  the  same  which  I 
saw  there  when  I  first  told  her  of  my  pur- 
pose. All  that  despair  and  mournfulness  un- 
utterable ;  all  that  mute  reproach  ;  and  even 
all  that  deep,  self-sacrificing  love — all  is  there. 
It  is  the  same  face  always.  Rcracnibor  this, 
and  bear  this  in  mind,  while  I  tell  you  what 
happened  last  night  at  Pere-la-Chaise." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

nEAU      on      ALIVE? 

Kane  IIki.lmuth  gulped  down  another 
tjLiss  of  raw  cognac. 

■'  Kiic  is  buried  in  Pere-la-Ohaise,"  said 
he,  "  They  put  a  stone  over  her  grave,  and 
I  found  it  without  trouble.  I  went  there  the 
moment  I  reached  Paris.  No  one  knew  me. 
All  danger  for  me  was  over,  if  I  had  cared 
for  danger.  I  came  only  to  weep  at  her 
tomb.    It's  the  fashion  on  the  Continent  for 


DEAD  OR  ALIVE? 


4& 


oil  wonder  that  I 
ndcr  too.  At  nny 
a  dead  man.  My 
lat  it  used  to  bo  is 
li  now.  Once  only 
name.  It  was  in  a 
I  guardian.  I  found 
lope  tliat  slie  might 
o  liiin,  telling  liini 
d.  After  some  de- 
It  destroyed  my 
ic  that  my  wife  was 
dead  in  the  room 
lat  she  was  buried 
h  the  pity  of  some 
had  relented  at  the 
id  resulted  from  my 
gance. 

IC  a  wanderer.  I 
ds  to  get  my  living, 
world  as  a  coraraou 
IS  a  laborer.  About 
ck  to  Paris,  feeling 
to  visit  her  grave, 
go  there  often.  It 
her  name,  with  the 

ed  Kane  Ilellmutli, 
crstand  the  full  sig- 
>ke  of  first.  That 
1  face  of  her  who  is 
The  expression 
the  same  whieh  I 
told  her  of  my  pur- 
iid  mournfulncss  un- 
reproach ;  and  even 
ig  love — all  is  there. 
■3.  Kemcr.iber  this, 
hile  I  tell  you  what 
re-Ia-Chaise." 


:  XI. 

I  L  I  y  E  ? 

ped    down    another 

ere-Ia-Ohaise,"  said 
over  her  grave,  and 
.  I  went  there  the 
Ko  one  knew  me. 
iver,  if  I  had  cared 
ily  to  weep  at  her 
u  the  Continent  for 


men  to  woop,  you  know."  He  frowned,  and 
tugged  at  his  tawny,  ragged  mustache. 

"Yes,"  he  added,  "and  a  very  conve- 
nient fashion  it  is,  too,  sometimes — or  else 
— a  poor  devil's  heart  might  break." 

Something  like  a  groan  burst  from  him, 
and  he  dashed  his  brown  hand  across  his 
eyes. 

"  It's  two  years,"  he  continued,  "  since  I 
came  here.  You  know  how  I  live.  I  hap- 
pened, in  my  wanderings,  to  be  at  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope  the  time  the  diamond  excite- 
ment broke  out.  I  had  nothin  ;  else  to  do, 
so  I  wont  to  the  diggings,  and  had  moderate 
luck.  That's  one  reason  why  I  came  here. 
I  put  my  gains  in  government  stock,  and  go* 
enough  francs  to  keep  me  in  my  plain  fusn- 
ion.  All  I  want  is  to  be  witliin  walking-dis- 
tance of  Pere-la-Chaise — not  too  near,  you 
know;  enough  to  take  up  a  good  day,  if  ne- 
x.e3sary,  in  going,  staying  there,  and  coming 
back.  Somehow,  during  these  late  years,  my 
religious  views  have  changed,  I  no  longer 
hold  to  the  gospel  of  the  French  novelists.  I 
do  not  now  believe  that  I  should  have  gone 
straight  to  heaven  from  my  lodging-house; 
and  I  comfort  myself  by  praying  for  the  soul 
of  my  lost  Clara.  The  Church  stands  between 
the  living  o'ld  the  dead.  I  feel  a  strange  con- 
solation in  >he  thought  that  I  am  not  cut  off 
utterly  from  ber  whom  I  have  lost.  The 
Church  sends  up  her  prayers,  and  I  blend 
mine  with  them.  By  her  grave  I  feel  nearest 
to  her,  and  therefore  I  go  to  Pore-la-Chai.<e. 
Therefore,  also,  I  have  adopted  the  mode  of 
life  which  you  see  me  following — acting  as  a 
sort  of  lay-brother,  going  about  among  the 
poor  devils  of  fallen  humanity  whom  I  see 
around  me,  and  trying  to  do  something  to 
give  them  an  occasional  lift.  I  wouh'  have 
scorned  the  African  diamonds  if  tkoy  could 
have  given  mo  no  more  than  a  living  for  my- 
self. I  took  them  for  Clara's  sake;  and, 
since  she  made  me  lire,  and  sent  me  back  io 
life  when  she  went  to  death,  so  I  study  to 
make  my  life  such  that  I  may  meet  her  here- 
after with — with  less  shame  than  I  miglit 
otherwise  feel. 

"  But  now,  my  boy  listen,"  continue! 
Ilellmuth,  rousing  himself  and  drawing  a 
.ong  breaih,  "listen.  You  know  Pere-la- 
Cliaisc — that  is,  in  a  general  way.  You  know 
the  tombs  there.  The  grave  is  about  fifty 
paces  away  from  the  gate,  in  one  of  the  more 
obscure  parts  of  the  cemetery.    Close  by  it  is 


a  cenotaph,  with  an  iron  door,  and  inside  this 
cenotaph  is  an  altar,  as  is  often  the  case.  On 
this  altar  the  friends  of  the  dead  place  im. 
mortcUes,  and  frequently  on  Sundays  or  holi- 
days, or  on  the  anniversary  of  deaths,  they 
place  lighted  candles  there.  Yesterday  was 
one  of  these  occasions,  and  the  candles  were 
burning  after  dark,  throwing  out  a  faint 
gleam  through  the  iron  bars  of  the  door. 

"  Xo  one  is  allowed  there  after  dark ;  but, 
when  one  is  inside,  he  may  staj',  for  no  one 
can  see  him  easily  among  so  many  monu- 
ments, I  went  there  toward  evening,  and 
stayed  after  dark.  I  had  frequently  done  so 
before.  Amid  the  darkness,  it  seemed  as 
though  I  was  drawn  nearer  to  her.  By  her 
grave  it  seemed  as  though  I  could  hold  com- 
munion with  her  departed  spirit.  At  least  it 
was  consoling  to  be  so  near  even  to  her  mor- 
tal remains. 

"  So  I  remained  there,  and  the  gates  were 
shut,  and  I  was  alone  in  that  city  of  the 
dead.  The  shadowy  monuments  rose  all 
around  on  every  side,  and  looked  like  a 
ghostly  population.  I  was  by  her  grave. 
From  the  cenotaph  nearest  mo  the  lights 
shone  forth,  and  illuminated  a  small  space  in 
the  gloom.  As  I  sat  there  I  thought  over  all 
the  events  of  the  mournful  past.  I  had  been 
praying  for  the  repose  of  her  soul,  but  what 
was  the  meaning  of  that  visitation  whieh  I 
had  had  three  times  ?  Was  her  spirit  not 
yet  at  rest  after  so  many  years  ?  Was  there 
any  thing  which  she  wanted  of  mo  ?  What 
was  there  that  I  could  do  ? 

"  Then  I  knelt  over  her  grn-,  e  and  prayed. 

"  IIow  long  I  was  kneeiing  I  do  not  know. 
I  haven't  the  slightest  idea,  nor  is  there  any 
way  of  finding  cut.  There  are  occasions  in 
a  man's  life  when  human  measurements  are 
useless,  and  duiation  extends  itself  indepen- 
dently uf  the  liiv'tations  of  time.  It  might 
have  bee.'i  ]o'  . ,  or  it  might  have  been  short ; 
I  do  not  li'iow.  I  only  know  tliis,  that,  sud- 
denly, in  thi  midst  of  the  deep  abstraction 
of  prayer  and  moditation,  I  became  aware  of 
a  presence  near.  T'lCre  had  been  no  noise 
that  I  was  conscious  of;  there  was  no  foot- 
fall, no  breathing  even — nothing.  IIow  the 
knowledge  came  I  do  not  know,  but  it  did 
come,  and  I  was  thus  aware  of  some  object, 
some  shape,  some  being,  in  my  neighborhood. 

"  I  had  been  meditating  profoundly  and 
praying  earnestly.  I  had  striven  to  abstract 
rnvself  from   all   thoughts   of   the    externa! 


mmmm 


i 


I 


'f 


i  I 


4G 


AX    Ol'EX   QL'ESTIOX. 


world,  but  tliu3  it  was  that,  through  all  thu 
Bolemn  gloom  of  that  sclf-abstractiou,  and 
that  elevation  of  Boul  above  the  woild,  there 
came  to  mc  this  suggestion  of  n  living  thing 
near  me. 

"I  roused  myself,  and  raised  my  head, 
and  looked  forth  into  the  scene  before 
me. 

"  The  first  glance  was  enough.  Tliere  was 
something,  as  I  had  been  aware,  aud  what  it 
was  I  saw  instantaneously.  The  feeble  liglit 
of  the  wax -candles  came  glimmering  out 
through  the  bars  of  the  iron  gate  of  the 
cenotaph  into  the  gloom,  and  fell  upon  an 
object  there,  which  was  standing  full  before 
mc,  not  more  than  half  a  dozen  yards  away — 
standing  there  erect,  a  liumau  shape,  witli 
black  robes — the  robes  of  a  nun.  The  light 
uhone  on  its  face,  and  the  face  was  full  before 
nie,  and  it  was  on  this  face  that  my  eyes 
rested  as  I  raised  them.  The  eyes  of  this 
being  also  were  fixed  upon  mine,  and  chained 
them,  and  held  tiieni  with  a  terrible  fascina- 
tion. 

"All  that  I  have  said  about  that  face  was 
there  now,  but  to  me  the  whole  expression 
seemed  intensified.  It  was  the  old,  wdl- 
rcmembered  look — the  look  of  her  face  as  it 
had  appeared  when  I  saw  it  last  in  life. 
There  was  that  mingled  grief  and  omazo- 
incnt,  that  sharp  anguish,  and  dark  despair. 
There,  too,  was  still  that  melanclioly  re- 
proach, which,  on  that  morning,  had  con- 
veyed the  protest  of  an  innocent  young  life 
against  the  destruction  which  I  had  brought 
upon  it ;  but  now  the  reproach  seemed  deeper 
and  involved  a  profounder  condemnation.  The 
eyes  that  chained  mine  in  their  gaze  seemed 
to  have  more  of  that  burning  intensity  which 
I  had  noticed  before,  and  glowed  witli  an 
awful  lustre  as  they  met  mine. 

"I  knelt  aud  looked,  but  1  did  not  breathe. 
I  couW  not  move.  I  did  not  have  any  im- 
pulse to  fly  away  or  to  ej  ring  toward  it.  It 
seems  to  me  now  as  if  I  was  for  a  short  time 
in  a  state  of  perfect  ment.al  torpor.  My  state 
of  mind  was  not  one  of  horror.  It  was  im- 
bscility,  or,  rather,  vacuity.  I  thought  of 
nothing.  I  desired  nothing.  I  feared  noth- 
ing. 1  was  simply  conscious  of  the  presence 
of  this  being  wlio  thus  confronted  me. 

"At  'cngtb  the  figure  moved  Its  hands, 
and  then  seemed  to  shrink  away  into  nothing- 
ness. The  darkness  swallowed  It  up.  As  I 
looked,  I   perceived   that   It  was   no  longer 


thoro.    It  was  gone.    It  liiid  vanished.    I  was 
alone, 

"  I  remiiincd  there  for  some  time — I  do 
.lot  know  how  long — in  the  same  position, 
and  in  the  same  state  of  mind.  At  length  I 
gradually  regained  the  use  of  my  faculties.  I 
rose  from  my  knees,  and  walked  forward  iu 
the  direction  where  the  figure  had  vanished 
into  the  darkness.  I  found  nothing  whatever. 
I  waited  and  walked  about  for  sonio  time 
longer,  and  then  I  went  to  tho  gate,  roused 
the  keeper,  made  some  explanation  of  my 
presence  there,  aud  was  let  out.  I  thou  came 
homo." 
.  .Such  was  Kane  Ilellmuth's  story. 

After  he  had  eudcd  it,  he  lighted  his  pipe 
and  began  smoking.  Blake  said  nothing,  but 
imitated  his  friend's  example.  Tlie  former 
seemed  lost  in  his  own  meditations,  and  tho 
latter  found  it  very  difficult  to  make  any  com- 
ments. 

'•  Well,"  said  Kane  Ilellmuth,  at  length,  "  I 
should  like  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say. 
Say  it  out.  Don't  be  afraid  of  oll'ending  any 
prejudices  or  prepossessions  of  mine.  You're 
a  materialist.  1  am  not.  Let  nie  hear  what 
you,  as  a  materialist,  have  to  i\\.y." 

"  Well,"  said  Blake,  slowly,  "  in  the  first 
place,  I  have  merely  to  say  this,  that  I  cannot 
for  a  moment  share  your  belief.  For  every 
thing  that  1  have  ever  seen  in  all  my  life,  or 
learned,  or  studied,  shows  this  to  mc  with 
perfect  clearness,  that  the  dead  can  never — 
never  come  back  to  life — never — never." 

"  You  are  begging  the  question,"  said 
Kane  ilellmuth,  quietly. 

"Any  theory  is  acceptable  rather  than 
youre,"  said  Blake.  "  The  dead  are  the  dead. 
Tiiey  come  back  no  more.  No  fond  longings, 
no  prayers,  can  bring  them  back.  Supersti- 
tion may  call  up  vision  b,  but  these  are  only 
projections  of  the  brain,  the  images  wrought 
by  the  vivid  fancy.  With  these,  science  and 
reason  can  do  nothing.  No  proof  has  ever 
been  adduced — no  proof  can  t  ver  be  adduced 
— that  the  dead  can  reappear,  or  can  have 
any  existence,  that  we  can  coniprehend." 

"  Very  well — we  dilier,"  said  Kane  Ilell- 
muth, "  and  now  let  me  hear  what  you — re- 
jecting, as  you  do,  my  belief — have  to  pro- 
pose as  a  theory  of  your  own." 

"I  cannot,  on  tho  instant,  propose  a 
theory  which  will  satisfy  every  contingency  in 
your  case,"  said  Blake.  "  You  yourself  say 
that  you  have  already  tried  to  accouut  for  this 


M 


I  vuiilslic'J.    I  was 

Bomc  time — I  ilo 
lie  same  position, 
liud.  At  length  I 
of  my  facilities.  I 
i\ullieil  forward  iu 
;urc  had  vanished 

nothing  whatever. 
it  for   BoniC   time 

0  tho  gate,  roused 
xpliinalion  of  my 
out.     I  thou  came 

:h'3  story, 
he  lighted  hi3  pipe 
e  paid  nothing,  but 
niilc.  The  former 
editations,  and  tho 
t  to  make  any  com- 

muth,  at  length,  "I 
you  have  to  say. 

d  of  oll'ending  any 

18  of  mine.  You're 
Let  me  hear  what 

to  <-..iy." 

lowly,  "  in  the  first 
thi.-i,  that  I  cannot 
belief.  For  every 
u  in  all  my  life,  or 

5  this  to  ino  with 
dead  can  never — 

icver — never." 

10   question,"   said 

)tablc  rather  than 

dead  lire  the  dead. 

No  fond  longings, 

in  back.     Supersti- 

but  these  are  only 

Ihe  images  wrought 

these,  Bcicnce  and 

No  proof  has  ever 

m  ever  be  adduced 

ipcar,  or  can  have 

1  coniprcliend." 

,"  said  Kane  Ilell- 
henr  what  you — re- 
elief — have  to  pro- 
)wn." 

instant,  propose  a 
very  contingency  in 
"  You  yourself  say 
J  to  aceouut  for  this 


I)i;ad  oi:  ai.ivk? 


47 


upparilion  on  all  ordiuary  sciciUUic  or  practi- 
cal grounds,  and  are  forced  back  to  your 
theory  ol'  the  Eupcrnaturai.  Now,  what  I  have 
to  8.iy  is  simply  of  a  general  character." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"Well,  in  the  first  i)lace,  we  will  dismiss 
altogether  the  idea  of  hallucination,  since 
you  reject  it.  You  fuel  eonlident  in  your  own 
perfect  sanity  and  robust  nerves.  There  re- 
mains, tlierefore,  one  of  two  alturiialivcs — 
one  is  this:  Tiiis  one  whom  you  have  seen  is 
u  living  person  who,  for  some  reason,  is  play- 
ing a  part,  and  following  you.  What  the 
reason  may  be  I  can,  of  course,  have  no  idea." 

"In  answer  t)  that,"  said  llellmuth,  "1 
can  only  say  that  no  one  can  iiave  any  motive 
lor  doing  so." 

"Why  not?  You  have  already  tolJ  me 
that  you  live  under  an  assumad  name.  Tliink 
over  your  old  relations,  and  your  old  position. 
Has  any  one  any  claim  on  you?  Is  there  any 
one  whose  interest  it  would  be  to  find  you  in 
life  or  in  death?  Do  your  relatives  know 
that  you  are  alive,  or  dead?  Is  tliere  any  in- 
lieritancc  coming  to  you  which  cannot  go  to 
your  heirs  till  your  death  is  proved  ?  " 

"  By  Heaven ! "  cried  Kane  Ilellinuth, 
"  what  thoughts  arc  these  which  you  are  sug- 
gesting to  rao  ?  AVhat  do  you  moan  by  this, 
lUsil  Blake?" 

"  Simply  this,"  said  Blake ;  "  an  estate 
may  wait  for  its  heir.  The  heir  m.ay  be  miss- 
ing. Until  his  death  is  proved,  the  next  of 
kin  cannot  inherit.  Is  there  any  inheritance 
which  may  fall  to  you  ?  are  there  any  otiiers 
next  of  kin  to  you  ?  If  tliis  is  so,  it  may  be  a 
matter  of  iulinite  importance  to  some  people 
to  get  at  your  secret,  so  as,  in  the  one  case, 
if  tliey  are  friends,  to  give  you  your  rights; 
or,  in  the  other  case,  if  they  are  enemies,  to 
put  you  out  of  the  way." 

Kane  Ilellmutli  frowned  darkly,  and  sat 
in  thought  for  a  long  time;  and  Blake  saw 
plainly  that  this  suggestion  had  produced, 
from  some  cause  or  other,  a  most  profound 
effect. 

"  Blake,"  said  ilellmuth,  at  length,  "  when 
I  said  that  I  was  a  dead  man,  I  had  reference 
to  this  very  thing  chiefly.  I  meant  that  I  am 
dead  to  all  my  fcirmer  rights  and  i)rivileges; 
that,  since  that  day,  I  have  turned  my  back 
on  my  past,  and  no  temptation,  however 
great,  shall  be  strong  enough  to  entice  me 
back.  I  feel  that,  since  Clara  gave  me  life,  I 
ehall  hold  it  from  her,  as  hers,  and  not  mv 


own.  This  resolution  1  have  kept  thus  far. 
But,  as  to  wiiat  you  suggest,  you  have  hit  the 
mark  fair.  I  have  an  inheritance — a  great 
one — an  inlieiitancc  to  gain  which  many  men 
would  stick  at  no  crime  whatever.  A  few 
years  ago  my  elder  brother  died.  All  his  es- 
tate is  mine,  lie  never  married.  1  am  the 
next  heir.  They  arc  looking  for  me.  1  saw 
the  notice  of  his  death  in  tiie  papers  three 
years  ago.  I  have  seen  advert isemcuts  for 
information  about  myself.  Largo  rewards 
iiavo  been  olfored.  .  .  .  Y'es,"  continued 
Kane  Ilellmuth,  bitterly,  after  a  pau.sc,  "  the 
wealth  which  my  elder  brother  valued  so 
highly  is  all  mine  now.  Once  I  could  not  get 
any  sum  to  save  myself  from  a  terrible  fate ; 
now  I  can  have  it  all  by  merely  saying  tlio 
word.  But,  now,  why  should  I  say  the  word  ? 
What  is  that  estate  to  me?  What  do  I  care 
for  money?  AVhy  should  I  go  back  to  my 
old  home  ?  Can  I  bring  back  my  old  nature  ? 
Xo.  1  cast  it  from  me.  I  refuse  it.  I  am 
dead." 

"Well,"  said  Blake,  "you  arc  the  best 
judge  al)Out  your  own  affairs,  and  wo  are 
now  merely  considering  tlie  probable  cause 
of  this  apparition.  One  part  of  my  sugges- 
tion is  justified  by  the  fact  which  you  state. 
One  thing  now  remains  to  be  asked — who  is 
the  next  heir  ?  " 

"  The  next  heir,"  saiii  Kane  Ilellmuth,  "  is 
my  younger  brother.  There  were  three  of  us. 
lie  comes  in  as  heir  if  I  am  dead." 

"lie  must  be  anxious  to  find  out,"  said 
Blake,  "or  to  prove  it  if  it  is  so." 

"Of  course,  that  is  human  nature.  He 
was  a  boy  when  I  saw  him  last — an  average 
boy,  neither  better  nor  worse  than  his  fellows 
— but,  with  such  a  prize  before  him,  I  can 
easily  understand  that  he  would  be  just  as 
well  pleased  if  he  could  prove  that  I  am 
dead." 

"  It  is  a  painful  subject,"  said  Blake,  "  and 
we  had  better  not  discuss  it.  I  merely  meant 
to  show  that  there  were  sufficient  reasons  for 
some  one  to  follow  you — either  to  find  out 
your  secret,  or  for  some  other  purpose." 

"  Yes,"  said  Kano  Ilellmuth ;  "  but,  allow- 
ing that,  how  can  this  marvellous  resemblance 
to  my  lost  darling  be  accounted  for?  That, 
of  itself,  is  enough  to  put  your  suggestion  out 
of  court." 

"  Advantage  may  have  been  taken  of  that 
tragedy  in  your  life.  Some  one  may  have 
been  found  who  bears  a  sufTiciently  close  re- 


I 


I 


AN  OPEN'   QUKSTIOX. 


semblance  to  her  to  pass  olT  an  licr  at  a  dis- 
tance." 

"  Impossible ! "  said  Kane  Ilellmutli ;  "  yon 
forget  timt  tliis  one  is  in  a  strange  garb;  you 
forget  what  casual  meetings  they  have  been  ; 
above  all,  you  forget  that  this  face  is  identical 
with  that  of  niy  lost  wiO' — not  in  feature 
only,  but  ill  expression — and  an  cxpiession 
of  a  very  peculiar  nature.  For  the  look  that 
she  gives  nio  is  not  ono  that  can  l)c  caught 
up  by  some  impostor.  That  is  iiioonceivaljle. 
l'"or  it  is  the  last  look  of  my  dying  wife — dy- 
ing under  such  circumstances — a  look  which 
for  years  has  haunted  nic,  nnd  tliis  is  the  look 
which  I  now  see  in  this  presence  wiiich  has 
appeared  before  mo.  No.  The  theory  of 
hallucination  is  preferable  to  this  last  one.  I 
will  allow  that  my  brother  may  be  anxious  to 
prove  my  death;  I  will  even  coiicimIo  that  he 
may  have  emissaries  in  search  of  me ;  but  I 
maintain  that  this  being  of  whom  I  speak 
cannot  possil)ly  have  any  connection  with 
that." 

"  Very  well,"  said  lll.ike,  after  a  pause  ; 
"we  will  let  this  pass.  I  said  there  vere  two 
alternatives.  This  is  one.  There  is  yet  an- 
other. It  is  this — do  not  start  when  I  sug- 
gest it;  you  told  me  to  bo  frank;  I  speak  it 
with  all  respect  and  sympathy  for  you  and 
for  her — Kane  llellinuth,  after  aU,  i/our  ivi/e 
may  yet  be  alive  !  " 

At  these  words  Kane  Ilellmutli  started  to 
his  feet,  and  regarded  IJluke  with  an  awful 
face. 

"She  is  dead  I  "  he  said,  in  a  harsli  voice. 

"  Who  says  so  ?     Who  has  seen  it  ?  " 

"  Did  I  not  got  that  letter  from  her  guar- 
dian ?  " 

"You  did— but  what  of  that?  Ho  said 
that  some  others  said  so  ;  it  is  third-hand  in- 
formation. Did  you  ever  go  back  to  that 
house  to  ask  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  When  ?  " 

"  When  I  came  back." 

"  What !  two  years  ago  ?  eight  years  after 
it  occurred  !  Why,  by  that  time  the  neople 
had  forgotten  it  all,  or  else  they  had  gone 
away." 

Kane  Ilellrauth  stared  at  lilake. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said,  hesitatingly; 
"  they  had  gone ;  I  have  never  been  able  to 
find  them." 

"  Mind  now,"  said  Blake,  "  I  am  only 
arguing  against  your  theory  of  the  supernatu- 


ral. I  am  showing  you  how  this  may  be  ra- 
tionally accounted  for  on  other  grounds  ;  and 
I  say  this,  that  you  liavc  not  yet  hud  reason 
to  feel  certain  that  she  died.  ir,i/<"'  escaped, 
why  should  not  she?  How  do  you  know  that 
she  gave  you  a  weaker  draught,  and  look  a 
fatal  one  herself?  That  is  only  u  theory  of 
yours;  you  have  no  proof.  How  do  you 
know  that  the  drug  was  strong  enoufih  ?  It 
may  have  lost  its  virtue ;  it  may  have  been 
badly  made  up ;  she,  in  [louring  it  out,  may 
have  made  a  mistake.  There  are  a  dozen 
ways  of  accounting  lor  it  other  tlian  the  way 
you  have  fancied.  No  ;  sIk!  has  liv(  d  ;  slic 
has  become  a  nun,  thinking  that  you  were 
dead.  You  liavo  como  across  her  own  self, 
by  chance,  on  various  occasions.  Your  in- 
tense excitement  lias  thrown  around  her  va- 
rious semi-supernatural  adjuncts  which  have 
imposed  upon  your  reason.  (Jo  and  accost 
lior  when  you  see  her  next.  S^peak  to  her. 
Do  not  allow  yourself  to  ,ink  into  a  stupor." 

To  all  this  Kane  Ilellmutli  listened  with  a 
frown.  (Iradually,  however,  the  frown  passed. 
Tho  old  look  came  back.  He  resumed  his 
scat. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  calmly,  as  Hlake  ceased, 
"  it  is  quite  right  for  you  to  say  this.  I  have 
thought  of  all  that,  however,  though  I  must 
say  it  comes  with  i'resh  force  from  another. 
Still  there  is  no  conceivable  reason  why  any 
human  beings  should  take  the  trouble  to  get 
up  such  an  elaborate  piece  of  deceit.  It  wus 
no  one's  interest  to  do  so.  No  one  could  gain 
any  thing  by  it.  The  peojilo  who  laid  her 
dear  remains  in  tlie  grave  had  no  motive  for 
acting  a  farce.  The  guardian  had  no  motive 
for  keeping  it  up.  Who  could  have  been 
benefited,  or  what  end  could  have  been 
gained  ?  There  is  her  grave,  and  there  is 
the  stone  wiili  her  name.  How  can  it  be 
accounted  for  if  she  is  not  dead  ?  " 

"  If  I  were  to  suggest  all  that  is  in  my 
mind  to  say,"  remarked  Bl.ike,  "you  would 
call  me  visionary.  1  should  think,  however, 
that,  until  you  know  more  than  you  seem  to 
have  lcarne<l — more  than  even  she  herself 
seemed  to  know  about  her  antecedents,  about 
her  father,  and  her  guardian,  and  the  nature 
of  that  calamity  which  so  strangely  deprived 
her  of  all  her  friends — until  then  you  have 
no  right  to  say  that  there  was  no  motive  for 
imposing  upon  you  and  the  world  a  false  ac- 
count of  her  death.  Hut  this  is  a  thing  which 
I  do  not  care  to  speak  of.     One  thing  only  I 


DR.  BLAKE'S  STRANYiK  STORY. 


49 


low  tlii.i  iiiav  be  rn. 
itlior  };rouml» ;  Qiiil 
ot  jit  Imil  rcnHoii 
d.  if  yon  cscnpeil, 
r  do  you  know  that 
•au};lit,  and  look  n. 
is  only  a  tlicory  of 
)of.  How  do  you 
tronp  t'noii};li  ?  It 
;  it  iiiny  liavc  lietn 
ouiing  it  ovit,  may 
riiiTO  are  a  dozen 
oilier  than  tlic  way 
pho  lins  livid  ;  fIu' 
iiig  lliut  yim  were 
•ros3  licr  own  self, 
rnsiionH.  Your  in- 
own  nro\ind  her  vii- 
Ijuncts  which  have 
jn.  (io  and  accost 
xt.  Speak  to  her. 
link  into  a  stupor." 
luth  listened  with  a 
:r,  the  frown  pnpned. 
;.     lie  resumed  his 

ly,  as  r>lakc  ceased, 
to  say  this.  I  have 
vcr,  thoufih  I  must 
orcc  from  another, 
blc  reason  why  any 
c  the  trouble  to  get 
e  of  deceit.    It  was 

No  one  could  gain 
coplc  who  laid  her 
e  had  no  motive  for 
•dian  had  no  motive 
0  could  have  been 

could    have    been 
;ravc,  and    there    is 
How  can   it  be 
t  dead  ? " 
t  all  tliat  is  in  my 

Rl.ike,  "you  would 
uld  think,  however, 
a  than  you  seem  to 
n  even  bIic  herself 
r  antecedents,  about 
ian,  and  the  nature 
0  strangely  deprived 
mtil  thou  you  have 
!  was  no  motive  for 
he  world  a  false  oc- 
this  is  a  thing  which 
'.    (ine  thing  only  I 


should  liko  to  ask— If  you  have  no  objections 
— her  name,  lier  maiden  name," 

"  Clara  Mordaunt,  said  Kane  Ilellmutb, 
in  a  low  voice. 

Ulakc  started. 

"  Mordaunt  1 "  ho  repeated. 

The  name  was  a  familiar  one,  associated 
with  the  happiest  hours  of  his  life,  with  the 
presence  of  Inez ;  for,  wherever  Inez  Wyverno 
was,  the'  •  ■  >o  was  her  friend,  Bessie  Mordaunt. 

Kane  Jleilmuth,  however,  was  looking 
away,  and  did  not  notice  the  start  which 
IJlake  gave. 

"I  do  not  like  this  guardian,"  fuid  he, 
after  a  pause.     "  You  should  see  th.it  man." 

•  So  I  intended  to,"  said  Kane  Ilellmuth, 
"but  unfortunately  it  is  too  late  —  ho  is 
dead." 

"Dead?  Ah!  that  is  bail.  Did  ho  die 
very  long  a'"i  V  " 

"  Oh,  no ;  only  about  a  week  ago.  I  saw 
it  in  thv  ;i;"     ." 

"  Ah  1 " 

"Yes;  he  died  in  Switzerland  somewhere 
— Villencuve,  I  think — yes,  it  was  Villcneuve. 
The  name  is  so  peculiar  a  one  that  it  caught 
my  eye  at  once.  1  saw  it  in  Galiffnani,  a  day 
or  two  ago.  I  am  old  enough  now  always  to 
look  at  tho  deaths  and  marriages,  the  first 
thing." 

lilako  did  not  hear  more  than  half  of  this. 
He  heard  only  the  first  words.  As  he  heard 
them,  his  heart  throbbed  wildly,  and  a  feeling 
of  indefinable  terror  eamo  over  him.  Died 
at  Villcneuve  ! — the  guardian  ! — tho  guardian 
of  a  girl  named  Mordaunt!  lie  liad  suspect- 
ed evil  on  the  part  of  this  guardian  ;  he  had 
given  utterance  to  those  suspicions.  All  the 
v.ild  words  of  tho  dying  man  came  back 
lioshcr  than  ever  to  his  memory — all  the 
giicf  of  Inez,  and  all  the  horrors  of  that 
filial  death.  His  face  grew  ghastly  white, 
lie  clung  to  the  arm  of  the  sofa  for  support. 

"  What  was  his  name  ?  "  he  gasped. 

"  His  name  ?  "  said  Kano  Ilellmuth. 
'What?  the  guardian?  It's  a  very  odd 
name.    It's— Ilennigar  Wyvcrne  ! " 

"  Oreat  Heaven  1 "  exclaimed  Blake,  with 
so  strange  a  cry  that  Kano  Ilellmuth  started 
and  looked  at  him  in  amazement. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

DK.    III.AKK'd  STnANOR  aTORT. 

TiiK  amazement  of  Kano  Ilellmuth  at 
tho  sight  of  Itliike's  face  was  unbounded. 
Thus  far  he  had  been  the  prey  to  excitement, 
and  Ulakc  had  bonn  the  sympathizing  friend 
and  .spectator.  The  tables  were  now  turned. 
The  emotion  had  passed  to  Hlake ;  the  rule 
of  sympathizing  spectator  to  Kano  Ilellmuth, 
As  for  Ulake,  there  was  every  reason,  as  is 
evident,  why  lie  should  be  overwhelmed  by 
surprise  and  agitation.  W'hat  liis  feelings 
were  toward  Inez  have  been  sufficiently  ex- 
plained ;  what  his  feelings  were  toward  Ilen- 
nigar Wyvernc  may  be  conjectured.  Mention 
has  already  been  made  of  tho  dying  man's 
declaration — that  Blake  was  his  own  son,  and 
of  Blake's  perplexity  at  such  an  announce- 
ment. He  now  found  that  this  man  who  was 
standing  in  so  peculiar  a  relation  toward  him- 
self was  identical  with  tho  very  man  whoso 
connection  with  Kano  Ilellmuth  he  had  found 
so  suspicious  ;  and  against  whom  ho  had  just 
been  trying  to  lead  up  tho  suspicions  of  his 
friend.  Would  he  still  maintain  those  suspi- 
cions ?  Would  he  now  carry  out  to  its  ulti- 
mate consequences  that  train  of  thought 
which  was  on  his  mind  just  before  Kane  lloll- 
n.iith  had  mentioned  the  name  of  Ilennigar 
Wyvernc  ? 

The  exclamation  of  Blake  was  followed 
by  a  long  silence  and  a  profound  meditation, 
in  which  he  was  evidently  in  a  state  of  great 
embarrassment  and  perplexity. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  this  conver- 
sation has  certainly  taken  a  turn  which  is 
most  extraordinary  and  most  unexpected. 
I  will  not  conceal  from  you  that  I  feci  com- 
pletely upset,  and  that  tho  mention  of  this 
guardian's  name  puts  me  in  a  most  astonish- 
ing position  with  regard  to  this  affixir  of 
yours.  I  have  been  brought  of  late  into 
very  close  connection  with  this  man,  and 
there  is  a  very  mysterious  prospect  of  a  still 
closer  connection  being  discovered.  I  havo 
not  mentioned  any  thing  of  the  events  with 
which  I  have  been  connected  during  the  past 
few  weeks,  but  there  is  something  in  my  af- 
fairs which  seems  to  run  very  wonderfully 
into  your  own.  There  is  something  also  in 
them  80  puzzling,  so  confounding,  that  I  am 
unable  to  grapple  with  it  altogether.  Per- 
haps you  can  help  me.    Perhaps  wo  can  help 


I 


ti 


N 


AN  OPES  QUESTION. 


I 


one  another.  Pftrliapa  my  alTuirs  can  throw 
BOine  liglit  on  yours,  or  yours  luay  throw  light 
on  mine." 

"(io  ahead  by  all  mecns,  old  fellow,"  Baid 
Kane  Ileliinutli ;  "  at  any  rate,  it  will  divert 
iny  thoughts,  and  Lord  knows  I  want  some- 
thing to  uivert  them  just  now,  or  else  I  shall 
go  mad." 

"  Veiv  wel!,"  Faid  Blake.  "  My  ftoiy  be- 
gins I'roni  the  time  that  I  lel't  here  six  weeks 
ago.  I  was  worn  out  by  overwork.  1  had 
an  uiuiertuking  of  immense  importance  be- 
fore me,  before  entering  upon  which  it  was 
absolutely  necessary  for  me  to  recruit  niy 
strength.  A  change  of  air  to  the  sea-side 
tvas  tlie  most  importaut  thing  for  me,  and,  ac- 
cordingly, I  went  to  St.  Mulo. 

"  On  my  arrival  here  I  found  an  English 
party,  wlio  at  once  excited  my  deepest  inter- 
est. There  was  an  elderly  gentleman  in  feeble 
health  and  two  young  ladies,  one  of  whom 
was  his  daughter  and  the  other  was  his 
dauglitcr's  friend,  and  perhaps  relative. 
She  seemed  to  look  upon  the  gentleman  as  in 
some  way  her  guardian  ;  but  perhaps  that  is 
my  fancy.  Now  you  will  begin  to  understand 
some  of  the  significance  of  my  story  when  I 
tell  .,')u  that  the  name  of  this  elderly  gentle- 
man was  Ilennigar  Wyverne." 

"  Ilennigar  Wyverne  1 "  repeated  Kane 
Hcllnnith.  "Ab,  is  that  so?  Why,  then, 
you  must  have  been  with  him  when  he  died,  if 
you  were  in  Switzerland — that  is,  if  you  got 
ncquiiinted  with  him,  which  I  presume  you 
did." 

"I  did,"  said  Blake.  "I  will  come  to 
that  presently.  I  was  saying  that  there  were 
two  ladies — 01.0  Miss  Wyverne,  the  other — 
the  one  whom  I  may  call  the  w^.rd — Miss  Mor- 
daunt." 

Kano  Ilcllmuih  started  in  strongest  agita- 
tion. 

"  Miss  Mordaunt!"  lie  exclaimed,  "award 
of  Hennicar  Wyverne.  (Jrcat  Heavens  !  mun, 
what  i^tory  is  tlii.s  that  you  have  to  tell  me  ? 
Miss  Mord:iunt  I   What  was  her  other  name?  " 

"  Itessie,"  Hi.id  Blake. 

"  Bessie.  Ah,  that  means  Elizubeth — Eliz- 
abeth— H'ra — Clara  had  a  younger  f'i>ier  who 
diet',  iter  death  may  have  been  a  mii'take.  But, 
DO ;  (hat  flistcr'8  r>  ;me  was  not  Elizabeth.  It 
was  some  ibreign  name — unusual.  I  dor  t  1  ■ 
mcnibcr  it  at  all,  A  similarity  of  name,  prot, 
ably  a  relation.  Wyverne  BC?ms  to  have  '  a,l 
a  strong  interest  in  tho  Mordaunt  farjuy 


But  what  did  this  Miss  Mordaunt  look 
like  ?  " 

''  Yery  pretty,  about  seventeen,  a  brilliant 
blonde,  witty,  frolicsome,  absurd — in  fact, 
more  like  a  sportive  child  than  a  young  lady ; 
the  most  utter  butterfly  I  ever  saw." 

"  No  resemblance  there,"  said  Kane  IlelU 
muth,  thoughtfully — "  no  resemblance  whatev- 
er.    She  was  a  brunette — grave  and  earnest." 

"  That  is  what  Miss  Wyverne  is,"  said 
Bkke. 

"  Well,  go  on,"  said  Kane  Ilellrnuth,  anx- 
iouB  to  hear  more  of  Blake's  story. 

"  I  was  saying,"  resumed  Blake,  "  that 
this  party  excited  in  mc  tho  strongest  inter- 
est. Miss  Wyverne  appeared  to  me  the  most 
beautiful  being  that  I  ever  saw  ;  and  I  frank- 
ly confess  that  I  fell  in  love  with  her  at  once. 
This  will  account  for  the  persistency  with 
wliieh  I  watched  the  party.  1  hadnodiOiculty 
in  doing  so,  ft  ■  they  epent  most  of  tho  time  in 
the  open  air,  and  Miss  Wyverne  was  always 
with  her  father. 

"Now,  you  may  take  for  granted  my  love 
for  Miss  Wyverne.  I  make  no  secret  of  that ; 
and  I  mention  it  so  that  you  may  understand 
other  things. 

"  I  soon  saw,  to  my  surprise,  that  the  el- 
derly gentleman  took  an  evident  interest  in 
my  humble  self.  At  first  I  thought  that  he 
had  heard  something  of  my  medical  skill;  but 
I  soon  dismissed  that  thought  as  a  piece  of 
preposterous  vanity.  Unlortuntitely,  what- 
ever my  medical  fikill  may  be,  the  world 
knows  nothing  at  all  about  it ;  so  that  an 
invalid  at  St.  Malo  would  have  been  the  lost 
person  to  at.ributo  any  such  qiuility  to  mc. 
After  a  time  I  began  to  see  that  this  interest 
ill  mc  grew  stronger,  Piid  its  manifestation 
more  open.  As  I  met  him  rolling  along  in 
his  perambulator,  or  walking  feebly  up  and 
down  near  his  loi'^lngs,  I  always  caught  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  my  face,  and  they  were  fixed 
there  with  a  certain  intensity  of  gaze  that 
was  most  rc.iiarkable.  There  was,  beyond  a 
doubt,  something  in  my  face  which  excited 
his  attention,  and  ),c  was  studying  it  to  find 
out  for  himself  what  it  was. 

"  Well,  I  wi»3  wondering  how  I  could  pet 
acquainted  with  him,  and  trying  to  dcvi.sc 
some  plan  of  bringing  it  about  so  ad  not  to 
force  mvself  upon  him,  but  I  could  not 
hit  upon  any  way  that  was  satisfactory. 
My  passion  for  Mi'<8  Wyverne  gave  me  my 
chief  impulse  to  this ;  but  at  the  same  time  I 


L 


DII.  m.AKE'S  STIUNGE   STOKV. 


51 


i3    Mordaunt   look 

ivcntccn,  a  brilliant 
,  absurd — in  fact, 
than  a  young  lady ; 
ever  saw." 
a."  said  Kane  Ilell- 
eseinblance  wbatcv- 
jravc  and  earnest." 
Wyvcrne  is,"  suid 

anc  Ilclluutb,  anz- 
c's  story. 

mea  lllalso,  "  tbat 
ho  strongest  inter- 
ircd  to  nie  the  most 
r  saw  ;  and  I  frank- 
ve  with  her  at  once, 
iie  persistency  with 
.  Ihadnodiffitulty 
most  of  tbo  time  in 
I'yvcrne  was  always 

for  granted  my  love 
ke  no  secret  of  that; 
i'ou  may  understand 

surprise,  that  tho  e!- 
i  evident  interest  in 
St  I  thought  that  he 
cy  medical  skill ;  but 
ought  an  a  piece  of 
JntortuneileJy,  what- 
raay  be,  the  world 
bout  it ;  BO  that  an 
d  hare  been  the  lost 
such  qiiiilily  to  nic. 
ee  that  this  interest 
lid  its  manifestation 
lim  rolling  along  in 
Iking  feebly  up  and 
[  always  caught  his 
and  tliey  were  fixed 
tensity  of  gaze  that 
riierc  W08,  beyond  a 

face  which  excited 
s  Bludyiug  it  to  find 
ras, 

'ing  liow  I  could  get 
nd  trying  to  devise 

about  so  aei  not  to 
n,  but  I  could  not 
It  was  satlsractory. 
yvcrno  gave  mo  my 
ut  at  the  same  time  I 


ff 


wish  you  to  understand  that  I  felt  an  extraor- 
dinary interest  in  thn  old  muu,  so  much  so, 
indeed,  that  if  Mi?j  Wyvcrne  had  gone  away, 
I  should  still  lipvo  stayed  there,  so  as  to  try 
to  form  an  acquiiintance  witii  her  lather. 

"  Well,  at  length,  this  problem  was  solved 
for  nic.  Mr.  Wyverne  himself  made  the  ad- 
vances— he  sought  my  acquaintance.  One 
day  I  was  standing  looking  out  at  sea  when 
ho  ciiine  walking  along,  iiccompaniod  by  his 
(laughter,  and  followed  by  his  footman.  He 
came  up  to  me  an'l  raised  his  hat : 

"  '  Can  you  tell  nic,'  he  asked, '  what  that 
steamer  is  ?' 

"  Ho  pointed  to  a  large  steamer  passing 
along  out  at  i;ca.  I  infor^ned  him  to  the  best 
of  my  ability.  He  then  began  a  conversation, 
and  turned  it  to  the  suliieot  of  the  climate  of 
S».  Malo.  IIo  soon  found  out  tbat  I  was  a 
doctor.  This  brought  forth  r:  larger  cn- 
lidenco  on  his  part,  and  he  'icgan  to  tell 
nio  about  h'n  troubles  and  his  motive  in 
coming  hero.  »Iu  fact,  before  an  hour  •  e 
Bcemed  like  old  fricnil-.  He  seated  himself 
upon  a  bench  by  thf~  roaJ-side,  fronting  the 
fica.  Miss  Wyvcrne  placed  herself  on  one 
Kiile,  I  on  tho  other,  and  we  all  talked  to- 
gether as  though  we  had  known  one  another 
for  a  long  time.  More  than  this,  he  ia'.ro- 
ducod  me  formally  to  Mis."  Wyvcrne,  and 
made  me  accompany  him  to  his  hotel. 

'There  is  no  need  for  me  to  go  into  de- 
t.iils.  Mr.  Wyvcrne's  regard  I'or  me  was  cvi- 
<lont,  and  it  was  so  marked,  so  strong,  and  so 
unv.irving,  that  it  aflbrded  perpetual  surprise 
to  mo.  He  engaged  me  regularly  as  his 
medical  adviser,  at  a  salary  that  to  me  was 
enormous;  ho  delighted  to  have  mo  with 
him ;  he  encouraged  my  attentions  to  Miss 
V/yverne ;  and,  as  she  was  always  with  her 
father,  and  as  lie  wanted  me  to  be  always 
Willi  him,  tho  consequence  was,  that  she  and 
I  were  together  far  more  than  is  commonly 
the  case  with  two  young  peoide  even  when 
they  are  in  tender  relations  with  ono  an- 
other. 

".Mr.  Wyverne  was  troubled  with  disease 
of  the  heart.  He  had  been  ordered  to  this 
place  by  his  I.K)ndon  physician,  with,  the  in. 
juneiion  to  refrain  from  all  excitement.  That 
injuneliou  I  eniorced  upon  him  wiili  the  ut- 
most emphasis,  St.  Malo  afforded  many  ad- 
Tuntages,  and  we  remained  there  four  weeks 
after  1  had  made  his  acquaintance.  During 
thai  time  I  noticed  his  unfailing  regard  j  but, 


nioic  than  this,  I  was  on.cu  .itiuck  by  the 
peculiar  expression  whieh  would  come  to  his 
face  wh.nn  his  eyes  icslod  on  me — an  expres- 
sion which  had  iu  it  a  meaning  that  aliso- 
lutcly  coiilonndcd  nic.  It  was  a  parental 
look,  but  moi'3  yearning — more  maternal,  in 
fact,  than  paternal ;  yet  why  ho,  a  perfect 
stranger,  should  regard  me,  another  stranger, 
with  such  an  expression,  was  utterly  and 
completely  out  of  my  power  to  imagine. , 

"  .My  inotlier  lives  in  England.  I  cor- 
respond with  her  regularly.  Of  course,  I 
wrote  her  all  the  particulars  of  my  acquaint- 
ance witli  these  new  friends.  I  was  already 
sufficiently  confo'.Mided,  but  the  letter  wliicli 
I  received  from  my  mother  in  answer  to  mine 
completed  my  bewilderment.  It  w^as  the  most 
oxtraardinary  epistle  that  ever  was  written. 
My  first  impression  was  that  tlie  poor,  dear 
lady  had  suddenly  gone  niiif'  My  ullin...i, 
conclusion  was,  that  there  was  about  this 
.Mr.  Wyverne  an  unfathomable  mystery,  and, 
what  was  more,  that  my  mother  held  the 
key  to  it.  She  remarked  iha»  Providence 
had  brought  us  two  together — had  brought 
mo  and  Mr.  Wyverne  faea  to  face.  She  said 
that  she  was  full  of  amuy.L.nent  and  gratitude 
at  the  wonder  that  had  come  to  pass  ;  that 
at  first  she  had  felt  like  warning  nie  against 
him,  and  adv.ying  me  to  leave  h.m  ;  but  that 
hhe  had  prayed  fervently  over  it,  mid  her 
mind  had  been  changed.  She  concluded  by 
urging  me  to  dcvoto  myself  to  Mr.  Wyvcrne ; 
to  follow  him  wherever  ho  went ;  to  give  hitn 
my  love,  and  try  to  win  his ;  to  watch  over 
him,  and  try  to  prolong  his  life. 

"Such  wan  tha  unaccouiitablo  letter  with 
which  my  mother  made  my  confusion  worse 
confounded. 

"  At  length  I  became  satisfied  that  the 
sea  air  was  not  so  good  as  it  miglit  be.  It 
was  wliat  is  commonly  called  'too  strong' 
for  one  in  Mr.  Wyvcrne's  peculiar  dclicaoy  of 
lieaKh  and  feebleness  of  constitution.  I  rec- 
ommended Villeneuve,  which  place  was  well 
known  to  me.  Mr.  Wyverne  at  once  decided 
to  go.  IIo  did  not  seem  to  have  any  will  but 
mine.  His  reliance  upon  me  had  in  it  .«om»»- 
thing  exceedingly  touching,  and  ;he'C  was 
that  in  his  look  and  in  his  tone  in  addre^-'sing 
me  which  was  full  of  a  profound  w!  os  We 
travelled  by  easy  stages,  and  arrived  there 
without  any  accident." 

After  this  Ulake  proceeded  to  I'ceount  tho 
events  which  Lave  already  been    uarrated> 


AS  O^EN  QUESTION'. 


I    II 


The  letter  which  had  prostrated  Mr.  Wyveme 
he  had  neTer  seen.  It  had  been  picked  up 
by  Bessie,  and  handed  to  Miss  Wyvernc. 

The  points  upon  which  Blalce  laid  em- 
phasis may  be  summed  up  briefly  in  the  fol- 
lowing way : 

First, — That  Mr.  Wyvernc  exhibited  a  re- 
gard for  him  which  was  unmistakable  and 
extraordinary. 

Seeondtf/. — That  Mr.  Wyvcme's  expression, 
when  looking  at  him,  had  in  it  something 
most  striking,  and  might  bo  called  pater- 
nal. 

Thirdly. — That  his  mother's  letter  pointed 
nt  some  knowledge  on  her  part  which  made 
it  desirable  for  him  to  continue  his  connection 
with  Mr.  Wyveme,  and  also  led  to  the  suspicion 
tlmt  she  herself  might  have  been  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Wyveme  in  some  way  in  past 
years. 

Foitrtlth/. — Coming  upon  all  these,  and 
gaining  new  meaning  from  these  things,  while 
it  gave  new  emphasis  to  them,  was  the  death- 
bed declaration  of  Mr.  Wyveme,  in  wliicli  he 
claimed  Basil  Blake  as  his  own  son.  At  this 
same  time  he  said  that  Miss  Wyvcrne  was 
not  his  daughter.  Moreover,  he  wished  Basil 
Biako  to  marry  her. 

Fifthhj. — Wyvernc's  declaration  wiis  ac- 
companied with  remorseful  alhisions  to  two 
persons.  One  of  tlit  se  was  Blake's  motlicr. 
The  other  was  Miss  Wyverne's  fatlier.  In  his 
manner  of  allusion  to  tlicse  two  tliero  were 
manifost  tlic  signs  of  conscious  gui't  of  some 
sort  at  their  expense. 

SixtMy. — Wyvernc  had  hastily  sent  for  a 
priest.  Ho  had  not  seemed  to  bo  so  near 
death  as  to  be  unable  to  receive  holy  com- 
niiiuiun  ;  but  the  result  had  been  most  unex- 
pected. Tlie  moment  that  liis  <ycs  had  cauglit 
sight  of  the  priest  ho  seemed  horror-stricken. 
To  Bluko  that  death  seemed  caused  by  sheer 
terror.  About  the  priest  he  had  discovered 
notiiing.  He  did  not  know  his  name.  The 
question  yet  remained  wiictiier  his  fear  was 
owing  to  tlie  priest,  or  to  some  resemblance 
whicli  ho  had  fancied  in  the  priest  to  some 
other  person. 

Finally,  after  making  all  due  allowance 
for  every  thing,  there  arose  the  question 
which  of  two  alternatives  to  choose.  One  of 
these  was  the  theory  that  ho  was  delirious  all 
through  Ills  last  'llncFs.  In  this  case  those 
events  must  all  go  for  nothing.  The  other 
was,  that  he  was  conscious  and  perfectly  rea- 


sonable. In  this  case  the  events  of  that 
dying  bed  towered  up  to  supremo  impor- 
tance. They  interwove  themselves  with  other 
things.  They  joined  themselves  to  the  inci- 
dents which  had  gone  before  them,  and  gave 
to  all  these  a  tremendous  significance.  Be- 
yond all  these  preliminary  incidents  these  last 
events  rose  up  to  that  appalling  climax  of 
death,  and  gave  to  Blake  a  new  character,  a 
new  name,  a  new  place  in  the  world,  and  a 
new  duty  in  life. 

How  should  this  be  decided  ? 

The  two  friends  talked  over  this  subject 
from  every  point  of  view. 

"  It  cannot  be  decided  now,"  said  Kane 
ITellmuth.  "  You  must  make  further  inquiries. 
Before  you  can  pretend  to  decide  a  question 
of  such  momentous  importance  to  yourself, 
there  are  two  peisoiis  whom  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  for  you  to  see.  One  of  these  is 
that  priest,  if  you  can  possibly  trace  him. 
The  other  is,  of  course,  your  mother." 

"  I  will  write  to  her,"  sai4  Blake. 

"  Have  you  not  yet  done  so  ?  "  asked  Kane 
Ilellmuth,  in  surprise. 

"  Xo." 

"Tlicn,  do  not  write.  Co  in  person.  See 
her.     Tell  her  all.     See  how  she  looks." 

Blake  hesitated. 

"  You  do  not  understand,"  said  he.  "  It 
is  not  a  subject  that  a  son  can  talk  over  with 
his  mother.  In  fact,  I  feel  a  reluctance  to 
mention  it  even  in  writing.  She  has  made  a 
profound  secret  of  it,  and — in  short — I  do  not 
know  what — painful  memories — I  may  awak- 
en— or  what  anguish  I  may  cause  her — by — 
by  bringing  such  a  subject  before  her." 

Knnc  Ilellmuth  looked  solemnly  at  Blako 
for  a  few  moments,  and  then  asked: 

"Are  you  sure  that  she  is  your  moth- 
er?" 

"  My  mo'Jier ! "  exclaimed  Blake.  "  What ! 
she — she  not  my  mother  I  What!  confident 
of  that  ?  She  I  No  other  thought  is  possible. 
She?  Oh,  yes;  there  is  no  doubt  about  that. 
AH  the  memories  of  my  life  centre  about  hor, 
and  all  the  happiness  of  my  life  has  como 
from  her.  From  my  earliest  thoughts,  I  have 
the  recollection  of  her  sweet  face,  her  yearii- 
'ng  love,  her  teniler  words,  and  more  tender 
looks  and  caresses.  Whatever  may  bo  tho 
mystery  of  my  life,  there  is  none  about  her. 
She  never  could  so  play  tho  mother  with  an- 
other  woman's  child." 

"Well,"  said  Kano  Ilellmuth,  "  you  have 


hm 


k.i 


DR.  BLAKE'S  STRANGE  STORY. 


c  events  of  that 
supremo  impor- 
nsclves  with  other 
selves  to  the  iuci- 
e  them,  and  gave 
significance.  Be- 
ncidents  these  last 
palling  climax  of 
1  new  character,  a 
the  world,  and  a 

lided  ? 
over  this  subject 

1  now,"  said  Kane 
to  further  inquiries, 
decide  a  question 
trtance  to  yourself, 
)m  it  is  absolutely 
One  of  these  is 
lossibly  trace  him. 
lur  mother." 
jniA  BialiC. 
leso?"  asked  Kane 


fio  in  person.    Bee 
ow  she  looks." 

land,"  said  he.  "  It 
n  can  talk  over  with 
eel  a  reluctance  to 
;.  ^tio  has  made  a 
— in  short — I  do  not 
lorics — I  may  awak- 
nay  cause  her — by — 
:t  before  lier." 
id  Holrninly  at  Blako 
lien  asked : 
she  is  your  moth- 

mcdBlnke.  "What! 
■1  Vliat !  confident 
•  thoujiht  is  possible, 
no  doubt  about  that. 
life  centre  about  her, 
)f  my  life  has  corao 
liost  thoughts,  I  liavc 
ircct  face,  her  yearn- 
dfl,  and  more  tender 
hftlftvcr  may  bo  tlio 
3  is  none  about  her. 
'  the  mother  with  an- 

[Tellmutli,  "  you  ha»e 


m 


4 


means  of  judging  which  are  superior  to  argu- 
ment. A  mother's  lovo  cannot  easily  bo 
counterfeited.  The  things  you  mention  are 
the  surest  proof  that  she  is  your  mother ;  and 
so,  if  she  is.  I  can  understand  your  hesitation, 
of  course.  '  >e  priest,  also,  will  be  diflScult, 
if  not  impossible,  to  find,  for  the  reason  that 
you  have  not  the  slightest  clew  to  him. 
(should  you  recognize  his  face  if  you  were  to 
see  it  again  ?  " 

"  I  should,"  said  Blake,  "  instantly.  It  is 
so  remarkable  a  face  that  I  could  not  pos- 
sibly mistake  it.  I  could  pick  out  that  priest 
from  among  any  crowd,  and  swear  to  his 
identity." 

"Tiiat  is  well,"  said  Kane  Ilcllmuth, 
thoughtfully,  "There  is  one  other  person, 
by-the-way,  who  ought  to  do  seen.  Tliis 
Jlias  llordaunt.  i^urcly,  slie  knows  some- 
thing. Perhaps  she  could  tell  about — Cla- 
ra." 

"  There  would  be  no  necessity  for  me  to 
see  her,"  said  Blake.  "  She  can  know  noth- 
ing of  my  parentage.  You  are  the  one  who 
ought  to  sec  her.  If,  as  is  possible,  she  is 
tlic  younger  sister  of  your  Clara,  she  can  give 
you  some  information  as  to  the  fate  of  her 
father,  and  possibly  may  tell  you  something 
about  that  point  which  we  were  discussing." 

"/have  nothing  to  ask  about,"  said  Kane 
ITcllmuth,  calmly.  "  It  was  a  theory  of  j/our*. 
2fy  belief  is  fixed.  You,  in  order  to  suggest 
a  commonplace  explanation  to  this  apparition, 
and  to  avoid  the  supernatural,  in  wliieh  I  be- 
lieve, suggested  tliat  this  was  herself — in  life 
— and,  consequently,  that  she — did  not — in 
short,  that  she  escaped,  as  I  did.  I  main- 
tained that  such  an  escape  was  inconceivable 
in  the  face  of  her  guardian's  testimony  and 
the  actual  grave.  You  then  proceeded  to 
show  that  the  guardian's  conduct  was  suspi- 
cious, that  ho  miglit  have  had  reasons  for 
putting  her  out  of  the  way,  and  concealing 
the  fact  by  a  pretended  death  and  burial.  It 
was  i/our  theory  ;  it  was  not  «ii/i^  Wliat  do 
you  now  say  ?  You  yourself  have  seen  this 
guardian  ;  he  was  Ileunigar  Wyverne.  You 
knew  liiin.  Answer  now.  Was  Ilonnigar 
Wyvemo  the  kind  of  man  who  would  have 
been  capable  of  an  infornal  conspiracy,  such 
as  you  suggested  ?  " 

At  this  question  Blake  turned  pale. 

"  When  you  speak  of  Hctinigar  Wyverne," 
said  he,  "  you  speak  of  one  for  whom  I  had 
already  formed  a  strong  regard  before  that 


moment  when  he  claimed  me  as  his  son.  Bis 
evident  regard  for  me  inspired  equal  regard 
in  my  breast.  His  daughter,  too,  made  ray 
regard  for  the  father  still  stronger.  11  o 
seemed  to  me  to  be  an  honorable  eentleman. 
Since  you  ask  mc  that  question  now,  I  can 
only  say  to  you,  Kane  Ilcllmuth — and  I  say  it 
solemnly — I  do  not  believe  that  Uennigar 
Wyverne  was  capable  of  such  an  act  as  the 
one  that  I  have  suggested.  Besides,  the  mo- 
tive which  I  have  imputed  to  him  was  false. 
Here  is  another  Miss  Mordaunt  in  his  family, 
treated  like  a  daughter,  just  as  your  Clara 
would  have  been,  no  doubt,  had  she  lived. 
Whether  there  is  any  inheritance  or  not,  I  do 
not  know ;  but  it  could  have  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  dealings  between  guardian  and 
ward  o"  which  you  spoke.  I  believe  that 
Uennigar  Wyverne's  letters  to  you  contained 
the  truth.  Ilarsh  he  may  have  been,  but  I 
do  not  believe  that  he  was  capable  of  any  act 
of  crime.  I  take  it  all  back ;  and  I  can  only 
say  that  the  mystery  of  your  apparition  re- 
mains at  this  moment  unaccountable." 

A  long  silence  followed.  Such  a  sudden 
change  in  Blake's  sentiments  surprised  UeU- 
muth  so  much  that  he  had  nothing  to  say ; 
and  this  testimony  to  the  character  of  Clara's 
guardian  at  once  destroyed  all  suspicion  that 
he  might  have  begun  to  have  of  any  decep- 
tion on  his  part.  These  last  words  of  Blake 
had  also  destroyed  the  very  argument  which 
he  had  framed  but  a  short  time  before. 

"Well,"  said  Kane  Ilelhnuth  at  last, 
"  dropping  my  own  afl'airs  for  the  present,  I 
should  like  to  ask  you  what  you  intend  to  do 
now.  Do  you  intend  to  make  any  examina- 
tion about  the — ah — tho  truth  of  the — this 
strange  statement  of  Wyverne's  ?  " 

To  this  Blake  did  not  return  any  imme- 
diate a.iswcr,  but  sat  in  deep  thought  for  a 
long  time. 

"  You  see,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  I  am  pre- 
vented from  taking  any  immediate  action  by 
various  important  circumstances.  In  the  first 
place,  the  only  persons  who  can  give  me  any 
direct  information,  or  rather  whom  I  can  ask 
for  such  information,  ore  cut  off  from  me. 
The  priest  has  passed  away,  and  has  left  no 
sign.  There  is  no  conceivable  way  of  tracing 
him.  I  have  already  done  every  thing  that 
man  could  do  to  find  out  sometliing  about 
him,  but  have  been  utterly  unsuccessful.  Tho 
other  person  is  my  mother;  but  how  can  a 
son  mention  to  a  mother  such  a  subject  as 


1 


54 


AN    OPEN   QUESTION. 


thfa  which  Hcnnigar  Wyvcrnc's  declaration 
forces  upon  nio  ?  No.  Itather  than  mention 
it  to  her  I  would  allow  it  to  remain  an  eternal 
mystery,  and  live  in  ignorance  always.  But, 
in  addition  to  this,  there  is  another  thing  that 
ties  my  hands,"  continued  Blake,  in  a  more 
earnest  tone.  "  This  afiair  does  not  concern 
me  only.  It  concerns  another,  and  one,  too, 
who,  as  you  may  have  gathered  from  what  I 
told  you,  ia  very — dear  to  me — yes — dearer  to 
me — than — than  life.  It  is  true,  no  words 
of  love  have  ever  passed  between  mo  aiul 
Miss  Wyvernc — for  certain  reasons  which  are 
•  easily  explained — but  yet  her  woman's  instinct 
must  have  revenled  to  her  long  ago  the  nature 
of  my  feelings  toward  her.  Her  father  en- 
couraged my  attentions,  as  I  told  you  ;  but  I 
•was  held  back  by  a  com  idcrafion  which 
would  hi.ve  weight  with  ev..>ry  high-spirited 
man.  I.  is  this:  I  am  poor.  She  is  rich; 
she  is  an  heiress.  I  could  not  bring  myself, 
OS  I  was  and  am,  to  do  any  thing  which  would 
make  mo  liable  to  br  stigmatized  by  the  world 
aa  a  miserable  fortune-hunter.  No;  not  one 
word  of  love  would  I  ever  speak  to  her  till  I 
had  ill  some  way  lessened  the  immense  dis- 
tance  between  ns,  and  had  at  least  raised  my- 
self above  the  reach  of  sneers.  I  did  not 
wish  to  get  rich,  nor  do  I  hope  io  do  so  ,  my 
aim  was,  and  is,  in  some  way  to  gain  reputa- 
tion among  mm.  At  present  I  am  utterly 
obscure;  but,  if  I  coidd  only  gain  s-ome  fame 
for  myself,  I  shouUl  then  l;e  able  to  conic  to 
her  on  more  equal  terms,  and  ask  her  to  be 
mine.  I  know  very  well  how  hard  it  is  for  a 
man  to  pii!*!!  hiinself  above  the  level  of  lis 
fellows,  but  I  mean  to  try.  The  only  trouble 
is,  it  will  t:il;o  too  much  time.  But  never 
mind  about  this. 

"  I  am  speaking  abou'  what  I  intoad  to  do 
In  this  matter  of  Jlr.  Wyverne's  strange  dec- 
laration. Now,  that  declaration,  as  you  see 
yourself,  was  twofold.  He  claimed  me  as  his 
son.  Very  well.  But  then  he  also  disowned 
her  aa  his  daughter.  He  took  mo  to  his 
heart,  and  addressed  me  in  the  languatro  of  a 
father;  but  he  nko  thrust  her  away,  and 
spoke  to  her  as  one  wlio  wns  of  no  value  to 
liim,  and  of  no  interest  in  his  eyes.  Ami 
that,  loo,  on  his  death-bed  !  AVith  his  dying 
Toice  he  informod  her  that  she  was  not  his 
daughter — worse,  he  declared  to  her  t'lat  she 
was  the  daughter  of  his  worst  enemy — an 
rncmy,  too,  who  doM  not  seem  to  have  in- 
jured him,  anil   upon  whnin   ho  had  inflicted 


injuries  so  terrible  that  they  had  caused  no* 
only  the  most  poignant  remorse,  but  also  ex- 
cited iu  his  mind  the  sharpest  terrors  of  some 
striingc  vcn{.'eance  that  his  enemy  meant  to 
inflict. 

"  Now,  you  sec,  if  I  aim  to  prove  tho 
truth  of  this  statement  of  Mr.  Wyverne's,  or 
even  examine  info  it,  what  is  it  that  I  must 
do  ?  I  must  enter  upon  a  course  of  inquiries, 
tho  result  of  which  will  affect  not  only  my- 
self but  her.  Suppose,  for  the  sake  of  argu- 
ment,  that  I  should  at  last  succeed  in  fiiidjig 
out  and  in  proving  that  Mr.  Wyverr.e's  words 
were  literally  true,  and  not  the  ravings  of  de« 
liriuni,  I  should  then,  of  course,  discover,  first 
of  uU,  that  I  am  his  son,  though  hi  w  in  tho 
world  that  could  be  I  do  not  i>rotend  just  now 
oven  to  conjieture.  But  that  would  nut  be  all. 
That  same  discovery  would  show  that  she  is 
not  his  daughter.  Who,  then,  is  she  ?  She 
is  some  unknown  person.  AVho  is  her  father, 
if  Mr.  Wyverne  is  not  ?  Where  did  idie  come 
from?  What  di'^honor — what  shame — yes, 
what  infamy  would  such  a  discovery  heap 
upon  her  innocent  head  !  Cood  Heavens  ! 
could  I  have  the  heart ;  would  it  oven  be  pos- 
siblc  for  me  to  cause  such  ndscry,  such  an- 
guish, to  any  one  in  her  positio!i,  even  if  sho 
were  a  total  stranger  ?  I  hope  not ;  I  am  sure 
not.  But  she  is  not  a  stranger.  She  is  the 
one  whom  I  love  better  than  liff,  and  I  say 
now  honestly  and  calnil;.  that  I  would  rather 
die  than  do  any  thing  that  would  interfere 
with  her  happiness.  She !  why  I  am  so 
situated  now  that  my  only  hope  h  to  be  able 
at  some  time  to  pain  her  fr,r  myself;  and  how 
could  I  now  do  such  a  thing  as  this?  No; 
my  hands  are  tied.  I  cannot  move  a  step  in 
this  matter.  I  am  only  afraid  that  she  may 
do  somcth'ng  to  satisfy  her  own  mind;  and, 
if  there  t'.ould  happen  to  be  any  thing  in 
this  ;  if  she  should  diseoverthat  she  in  really 
not  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Wyverne,  but  of 
some  other  man  ;  and  that  I  am  tho  one  who 
is  to  supplant  her  and  usurp  her  place — wliy, 
good  Heavens!  wliat  a  gulf  would  lliat  AU- 
covory  place  between  her  an<l  me  !  And  sho 
la  far  enough  removed  from  me  already, 
Heaven  knows t  Besides,  thcio  is  the  grief, 
the  suffering,  that  such  a  discovery  would 
cause.  She,  poor  girl,  has  already  sutl'ered 
ennupli  from  the  mere  suspicion  of  kucIi  a 
tiling  as  this.  How  could  I  do  any  thing  that 
might  change  that  suspicion  into  conviction, 
and   thus  increase  her  tioubles?     Mr.  Wy- 


MAKING   IXQUIRIia. 


had  caused  not 
Dfse,  but  also  ex- 
it terrors  of  some 
enemy  meant  to 

ira  to  prove  tho 
[r.  W'yvcrne's,  or 

is  it  tliiit  I  must 
lursc  of  inquiries, 
L'ct  not  only  my- 
thc  sake  of  nrgu- 
■uccccd  in  fmd'iiig 
Wyvoriie's  words 
;lie  ravings  of  do 
rsc,  discover,  first 
;iough  hi  w  in  tho 

prototul  just  now 
t  would  nut  be  nil. 

show  that  she  is 
iion,  is  she  ?  She 
Alio  is  herfiifher, 
hero  did  she  come 
ihat  shanio — yes, 
a  discovery  heap 

(lood  Heavens  ! 
lid  it  even  be  pos- 

iiiifcry,  such  nn- 
dtion,  even  if  she 
jpeno* ;  I  iim  sine 
ngcr.  Fhc  is  the 
lian  liff ,  end  I  say 
lat  I  would  ralhrr 
it  woiild  interfere 
I !  why  I  am  so 
hope  is  to  be  able 
■myself;  and  how 
ng  as  this?  No; 
lot  move  a  step  in 
aid  that  she  may 
r  own  mind  ;  and, 

bo  any  thing  in 
Tthat  she  in  really 
Wyverne,  but  of 

I  nm  the  one  who 
p  her  plaee — why. 
If  would  Hint  dis- 
ind  mc  !  And  slio 
from  nic  already, 
tlieio  is  the  grief, 
I  discovery  would 
IS  nirendy  suffered 
ispicion  of  such  a 
I  do  anything  thnt 
)ii  into  conviction, 
nublcs?     Mr.  Wy- 


m 


m 


Tcme's  unfortunate  wordt  have  already  result- 
ed in  changing  her  whole  nature,  in  making 
her  brood  incessantly  over  this  one  mystery 
which  has  been  suggested  to  her.  Her  former 
kindness  and  friendly  feeling  toward  me  have 
been  changed  into  what  is  at  tho  best  mere 
indifference;  and,  if  I  have  any  hop  * 
all  now,  it  is  that,  if  nothing  more  is  dor  j, 
these  cares  of  hers  may  eventually  pass  away. 
So,  you  see,  these  are  the  thinj^s  that  tie  my 
hands  just  now,  and  force  me  to  inaction." 

Blake  had  spoken  earnestly  and  frankly, 
as  though  ho  were  giving  utterauec  without 
reserve  to  \m  inmost  thoughts.  HcUniuth 
listened  in  silence,  and,  when  he  had  finished, 
made  no  observation  whatever.  Perhaps  he 
thought  Ulakc's  conclusions  unassailable,  or 
perhaps,  wrapped  up  in  his  own  thoughts,  he 
had  not  heard  a  word  that  his  friend  had 
been  saying. 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

M  A  K  I  N  O      I  N  Q  C  I  R  I  K  S  . 

The  result  of  the  examination  of  the  cas- 
ket had  served  to  complicate  still  further  the 
difTiculties  by  which  Inez  was  surrounded,  and 
to  introduce  among  them  new  actors,  most 
conspicuous  among  whom  was  Bessie.  Hith- 
erto, in  her  profound  abstraction,  Bessie  had 
been  quite  lost  sight  of,  and  her  only  aim  had 
been  to  hide  from  her,  as  much  as  possible, 
the  troubles  th.it  iiaJ  come  upon  herself. 
Hut  now  tho  revelation  of  the  true  nnuic  in- 
dicated by  the  initial  "  M.,"  at  once  seemed 
to  bring  Bessie  into  the  circle  of  circum- 
stances, and  suggested  her  as  a  possible  act- 
or in  the  events  wliicli  might  be  fo'  thcoming. 
The  name  showed  that  Bessie  might  be  con- 
nected with  thnt  same  family  to  which  Mr. 
Wyverne  had  said  she  herself  belonged  ;  her 
connection  with  Mr.  Wyverne  appeared  to 
make  it  certain;  an<l,  if  this  wore  so,  Bessie 
misht  bo  some  relation  to  herself  What  re- 
laiion  ?     This  wn-s  impossible  for  her  to  say. 

Tills  discovery  of  tho  name  of  Mordaunt 
thus  put  Bessie  at  once  in  a  different  posi- 
tion. It  seemed  to  Inez  thnt  all  along,  under 
tho  appearance  of  childish  innocence  and 
friendly  sympathy,  she  had  possessed  tho  full 
knowledge  of  that  secret  which  she  had  been 
trying  so  hard  to  keep  from  her.  She  now 
recalled  the  incident  at  Villencuvo  with  re- 
gard to  tho  letter.     Bessie  had  picked  it  up. 


She  had  read  it.  She  knew  all  that  was  in 
it.  Doubtless,  she  may  have  thought  over 
the  meaning  of  its  contents  as  earnestly  as 
she  herself  had  done,  and  had  superior  means 
of  information  about  its  statements  to  help 
her  to  a  conclusion. 

To  regard  Bessie  in  so  new  and  unusual  a 
light  was  unpleasant  to  Inez.  She  had  al- 
ways thought  of  her  ns  a  frolicsome  child ; 
it  did  violence  to  her  feelings  to  think  of  her 
as  one  who  was  as  capable  as  herself  of  keep- 
ing her  own  counsel  and  preserving  a  secret. 
It  seemed  to  her  now  to  be  of  no  use  to 
maintain  her  own  reserve  any  longer.  In 
fact,  it  was  impossible  to  do  so,  nnd,  more 
than  this,  it  was  absolutely  necessary  for  her 
to  ask  some  questions  of  Bessie.  She  wished 
to  find  out  who  Bessie's  relations  really  were, 
and  to  learn  how  much  she  really  knaw  nbuut 
this  matter.  She  had  understood  that  Bessie 
was  an  orphan  ciiild — tho  ward  of  Mr.  Wy- 
verne— who  would  in  due  time  inherit  a  re- 
spectab'.o  fortune,  but  had  never  known  any 
thing  more  definite,  partly  beerjise  Bessie 
was  reticent  on  the  subject  of  her  family, 
and  partly  because  she  herself  felt  a  natural 
delicacy  preventing  her  from  asking  questions 
of  a  private  nature. 

Tlius,  therefore,  a  full  explanation  with 
Bessie  was  absolutely  necessary.  But  Inez 
felt  a  strange  repugnance  to  it.  Bessie 
seemed  now  no  longer  the  same,  and  the  en- 
tire confidence  she  once  had  in  her  had  been 
shaken  during  the  past  week,  .''till  Inez  was 
of  a  frank  nature,  and  so  she  quelled  her  re- 
pugnance, and  lost  no  time  in  seeing  her 
friend. 

Bessie  met  her  more  than  )iall'-way.  As 
Inez  entered  her  room  to  engage  in  the  con- 
versation which  she  proposed,  Hessie's  face 
brightened,  and  she  ran  toward  her,  fir.  ,  her 
arms  around  her,  nnd  kissed  her  over  and 
over  ngiiin. 

"  Why,  my  own  darling  Inez ! "  she  ex- 
claimed, "  is  it  possible  ?  And  so  you  won't 
mope  any  longer.  You  have  been  so  sad,  you 
know.  You  have  quite  broken  my  heart.  I 
knew,  of  course,  dear,  that  you  could  not 
help  being  sad,  yet  still  it  was  very  hard  for 
nie  to  see  you  so  absent.  And  you  never 
favored  your  poor  little  Bessie  with  one  sin- 
gle  look — no,  not  one  !  And  now,  dear,  you 
must  cheer  up.  I'll  never,  never,  never  let 
you  mope  any  more." 

rratlliug  in  this  way,  with  the  utmost  ex> 


P! 


56 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


ubcrancc  of  afTcction,  Bessie  clung  to  Inez, 
and  drew  her  toward  the  sofa,  where  they  sat 
down,  Bessie  with  lier  arms  fondly  twined 
around  her,  with  her  fresh,  smiling  ;'.ice  close 
to  that  of  Inez,  and  her  clear  blue  eyes  fixed 
lovingly  upon  those  of  her  friend. 

"  You  shall  never  mope  again,  Inez  dear 
—no,  never,  never.  You  have  others  who 
love  you.  Do  you  think  it  is  right  to  be  so 
cruel  to  a  loving  heart  lii<e  mine  ?  " 

By  such  gushing  affection  as  this,  by  these 
fond  caresses  and  loving  reproaches,  Inez  felt 
at  first  completely  overwhelmed,  and,  for  a 
ticie,  the  faint  suspicions  that  had  entered 
Ler  mind  faded  away.  She  returned  Bessie's 
caresses,  and  they  talked  together,  for  a  little 
while,  in  the  old  strain  of  perfect  confidence 
and  siitcrly  love.  At  last,  however,  the  sus- 
pense in  which  she  was,  and  the  intense  de- 
si'o  she  felt  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  this 
Fccrc',  Drought  her  back  to  the  purpose  for 
which  she  had  come. 

"  Bessie,  dearest,"  said  she,  "  you  know 
what  I  have  had  to  be.ir  of  late,  and  will 
make  allowances  for  me,  I  am  sure,  if  I  ap- 
peared to  be  cold  toward  you.  If  I  were  to 
tell  you  all,  you  will  wonder  how  I  endured  it 
.it  all.  And  I  will  tell  you  all  some  day  when 
I  feel  able  to  speak  calmly  about  it.  But 
there  is  something  now  that  I  want  to  ask 
about,  and  the  person  I  wish  to  ask  is  vour- 
self," 

"  Me  ? "  said  Bessie,  opening  her  eyes 
wide. 

"  I  am  in  great  trouble,  dcor,"  said  Inez, 
"  apart  from  the  sorrow  I  feel  about  poor 
papa,  and  I  want  you  to  help  me." 

"  Sorrow  —  what !  more  sorrow  ♦  "  cried 
Bessie,  in  mournful  accents.  "  Oh,  my  own 
poor,  dear  darling,  unfortunate  Inez,  what 
can  have  happened  ?  Oh,  how  sorry  I  am, 
and  oh,  how  glad  I  shall  be  if  I  can  do  any 
thing  for  you  1 " 

"  It  was  something  that  poor  papa  said 
on  his  death-bed — the  last  words  he  spoke. 
IIo  said  them  to  roe,  and  they  trouble  me 
awfully.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  them, 
dear,  and  so  I  cannot  tell  you  now,  ))ut  I  will 
soon.  Ho  could  not  liavo  meant  vhat  he 
said.     It  must  have  been  his  delirium." 

"So  it  wa«,  surely,"  said  Bessie,  vehe- 
mently, In  her  slightly  Irish  way.  "Never 
could  he  hnve  said  any  thing  at  all — at  all — 
that  would  hurt  your  feelings  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  his  delirium.    They  tell  mc  he  was 


out  of  his  mind  entirely,  poor  dear  !  So  don't 
think  any  thing  more  about  it,  but  try  to  be 
youi"  own  self  again,  Inez  jewel." 

"  I  hope  it  was  so,  I'm  sure,"  said  Inez, 
sadly,  "  but  I  don't  know,  and  I  can't  help 
my  own  feelings.  Still,  there  is  something 
that  I  want  to  ask  from  you.  Part  of  my 
troubles  arise  out  of  something  which  poor 
papa  said  about  some  person  whose  name  is 
Mordaunt." 

As  Inez  said  this  she  looked  steadily  at 
Bessie.     Bessie  returned  her  look  calmly. 

"Mordaunt!"  she  repeated,  with  a  slight 
smile.  "  Sure  that's  my  name.  How  very, 
very  funny,  Inez  darling !  Was  it  mo  he 
meant,  jewel  ?  I'm  sure  I  don't  s.ee  why  you 
should  worry  about  that  ?  " 

"  Woi'ld  you  have  any  objection  to  tell 
me  a  littl?  about  your  pap.i,  Bessie  dear  ?  I 
want  so  nuch  to  know.  If  it  is  a  painful 
subject,  ycu  need  not  answer,  and  I  beg  par- 
don for  ashing." 

"Objcc.ion?  Why,  my  poor,  dear  Inez, 
not  the  leajt  in  life.  I'd  be  only  too  happy, 
darling,  to  do  that  same  if  I  only  could.  But 
it's  little  or  nothing  I  know  about  that  same. 
Poor  dear,  darling  papa  died  when  I  was 
very,  very  little,  and  I  have  only  heard  from 
others  what  I  know  about  him,  and  that's  lit- 
tle enough,  so  it  is.  Unfortunately,  all  that 
I  know  is  told  in  a  few  words,  dear.  His 
name  was  Bernal  Mordaunt,  and  ho  died 
when  I  was  a  bit  of  a  chi'  not  more  than 
three  years  old.  He  was  in  some  foreign 
country  when  ho  died,  and  I  really  do  not 
know  even  the  name  of  the  place.  But  a 
child  only  one  year  old  cannot  be  supposed 
to  know  much,  can  she,  Inez  dearest  ?  " 

The  last  part  of  this  Inez  had  not  hoard. 
She  had  heard  the  name  Jkrnal  Mordaunt, 
and  no  more.  She  hid  heard  Bessie  quiet- 
ly claim  him  as  her  father.  After  that,  she 
heard  nothing.  Her  lieart  throbbed  wildly, 
and  her  mind  was  confused  with  a  whirl  of 
fancies  that  came  to  her. 

"  So  your  father's  name  was  Bernal  Mor- 
daunt?" said  she,  at  length,  in  a  steady 
voice. 

"  Pear  Inez  !  how  very,  very  sad  you  look  ! 
Why,  what  possible  interest  can  you  take  in 
poor  papa?"  said  Bessie,  in  a  sympathizing 
tone. 

"  Do  you  remember  any  thing  about  your 
mamma,  Besiiie?"  asked  Inez  again,  after  a 
pause. 


4 


MAKIXG   INQUIRIES. 


«r 


lear !  So  don't 
,  but  try  to  be 
I." 

iro,"  said  Inez, 
id  I  can't  help 
e  is  something 
1.  Part  of  my 
ing  wliicli  poor 
whose  name  is 

)kcd  steadily  at 
ook  calmly, 
d,  with  a  alight 
no.  How  very, 
■Was  it  mo  be 
n't  spe  why  you 

)bjoction  to  tell 
Be^sio  dear  ?  I 
■  it  is  a  painful 
,  and  I  bog  par- 
poor,  dear  Inez, 
only  too  happy, 
)nly  could.  Hut 
bout  that  same, 
ed  when  I  was 
only  heard  from 
n,  and  that's  lit- 
unately,  all  that 
)rds,  dear.  His 
and    ho    died 

not  more  than 
n  some  foreign 
I  really  do  not 
place.  Hut  « 
lot  be  supposed 
dearest  ?  " 

had  not  lienrd. 
ernnl  Mordanut, 
rd  Bessie  quiot- 

Afler  that,  rlie 
throbbed  wililly, 
ftilh  a  whirl  of 

was  Dcrnal  Mor- 
;lh,  in   a   etcady 

<ry  sad  you  look  ! 
,  can  you  take  in 
I  a  sympathizing 

thing  about  your 
ez  again,  after  a 


"  My  darling  mamma  died  before  I  was  I 
bom,"  said  IJosaic,  in  a  childish  voice.  "  I 
never  saw  her  in  my  life.  I  have  beard  that 
poor  papa's  grief  for  poor  darling  mamma 
was  BO  violent  that  he  ran  away  from  the 
country,  and  died  of  a  broken  heait.  Hut  I 
never  saw  either  of  them.  Sure  and  it's  my- 
self would  be  the  happy  girl  if  I  had  some 
recollection  of  a  papa  or  mamma  to  look  back 
upon ;  but  I  never,  never  had  one,  Inez  dar- 
ling. That  is  the  reason  why  I  never  spoke 
about  them  to  you  before.  It's  so  very,  very 
sad,  dear." 

Again  Bessie's  words  made  the  heart  of 
Inez  throb  with  strange  vehemence.  Every 
word  seemed  to  assure  her  of  that  which  she 
half  dreaded  to  know.  In  this  unknown  Her- 
nal  Mordauut,  and  in  that  beautiful  lady  that 
bore  her  own  name,  Inez,  she  saw  those 
whom  Mr.  Wyvcrnc's  words  made  her  own 
parents ;  in  the  two  portraits  of  these  chil- 
dren, she  saw  "  Clara"  and  "  Inez."  She  saw 
no  "  Bessie."  What  place  was  there  for  a 
"  Bessie  "  in  that  little  family  group  ?  Yet, 
Bessie's  words  seemed  to  indicate  this.  One 
tiling  alone  made  it  seem  impossible,  ai:d  that 
was  the  statement  that  her  mother  had  died 
at  her  birth,  or,  as  she  expressed  it,  "  be- 
fore she  was  born."  Could  she  have  been  a 
younger  child,  whose  portrait  had  never  been 
taken,  and  never  included  among  the  others? 
But  that  was  impossible.  If  she  herself  were 
the  "Inez"  of  the  portrait,  then  Bessie  could 
not  possibly  belong  to  that  family.  Bessie 
was,  in  fact,  several  months  older  than  her- 
self, and  there  was  no  place  for  her.  On  the 
other  hand,  Bessie  could  not  be  the  child  of 
the  portrait,  for,  apart  from  the  dttference  in 
the  names,  which  might  be  passed  over,  there 
was  an  insuperable  difficulty  in  the  faces. 
That  child  was  a  brunette.  Bessie  was  a 
golden-haired  blonde. 

These  thoughts  passed  through  her  mind 
while  Bessie  was  speaking,  and,  as  she  ended, 
Inez  asked  her,  in  the  same  tone  as  be- 
fore: 

"  Were  there  any  others  of  you  ? " 

"  There  were,  surely,"  said  Bessie,  "  as 
I've  heard,  though  I  never  inivr  them.  Two 
sisters  older  than  me.  I  wai  the  baby,  and 
—oh,  Inez  dear,  I'm  so  fond  of  babies.  Are 
you  not  fond  of  them,  Inez  deareet  ?  " 

Bessie  raised  her  large  blue  eyes  to  her 
friend's  face  an  she  said  this,  and  looked  at 
her  with  a  loving  gmile. 


"Sisters?"  said  Inez,  without  noticing 
hr'r  question — "  sisters,  and  older  than  you  ? 
Why,  I  never  knew  that  you  had  sisters." 

"And  no  wonder,"  said  Bessie.  "It  was 
a  sad  world  for  all  of  us ;  for  my  two  sisters 
died  when  I  was  a  child,  and  it's  only  the 
names  of  them  that  were  left  me.  You  will 
not  wonder  now,  darling,  that  I  have  never 
chosen  to  make  you  my  confidante  about  my 
family,  when  there  is  nothing  but  so  very, 
very  sad  a  story  to  tell.  It's  me  that  neve» 
could  bear  to  speak  of  that  same." 

"  What  were  their  names?  "  asked  Inez. 

"  Their  names  ?  "  said  Bessie,  with  a  long 
sigh.  "  There  were  two,  one  several  years 
older  than  the  other.  The  eldest  one  was 
named  Clara,  and  the  youngest  one  had  the 
same  name  as  you  have,  Inez.  And  isn't  that 
awfully  funny,  Inez  dear?  But  I  believe 
your  dear  mamma  was  some  sort  of  a  relation 
to  my  dear  maramr.,  and  that  accounts,  I  sup- 
pose, for  their  both  taking  the  same  name  for 
their  children.  But  my  sister  Inez  must 
have  been  about  three  years  older  than  me. 
Sure  it's  a  mournful  subject,  and  I  can't  bear 
to  think  of  it  at  all  at  all.  Do  you  know,  Inez 
darling,  it's  really  very  hard  for  you  to  talk 
about  this  ?  You  really  almost  make  me  cry. 
And  I  hate  crying  so." 

Saying  this,  Bessie  turned  her  eyes  on 
Inez,  who  saw  that  those  calm,  blue  orbs  were 
moist  with  tears. 

"  They  all  died — all,"  said  Bessie,  mourn- 
fully. "  Jly  sisters  died  while  I  was  a  child, 
and  I  never  saw  them.  My  dear  grandpapa 
took  charge  of  me,  and  I  was  brought  up  in 
Ireland,  you  know,  till  your  poor  dear  papa 
sent  for  me,  three  years  ago." 

All  this  Inez  heard  with  the  same  feelings 
of  perplexity.  If  Bessie  was  right,  then  she 
saw  that  her  own  suspicions  were  utterly 
wrong ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  if  she  was  right, 
then  how  could  Bessie  have  ever  grown  up 
with  such  an  unaccountable  belief  as  this? 
The  Inez  of  the  portrait  might  not  be  herself, 
after  all.  What  foundation  had  she  for  her 
suspicions  but  a  sick  man's  delirious  words  ? 
She  v-as  younger  than  Bessie,  instead  of  being 
"Idcr.  If  Bessie  was  right,  then  she  was  en- 
gaged in  a  foolish  task,  and  heaping  up  end- 
less trouble  for  herself  to  no  purpose  what- 
ever. 

Still,  Inez  had,  after  all,  so  strong  a  belief 
that  her  suspicions  were  well  founded,  that 
she  was  unable  to  dismiss  them  as  yet. 


[■ 


I 

1 


58 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION. 


'  i  i 


! 


There  were  other  thinf^s  in  addition  to  tliia 
about  which  sho  wished  to  ask  Ucsiiic. 

"Bessie,  dear,"  said  slic,  "you  remember 
that  letter  tliat  you  picked  up  in  the  hotel  at 
Villeneuvo  and  handed  to  me?" 

"  Yea,  darling." 

"  You  rend  it." 

At  thi.s  Bessie's  fair  face  flushed  scarlet, 
and  the  l)ripht  and  sunny  smile  that  u.sualjy 
irradiated  it  was  chased  away  by  a  frown,  ami 
a  sudden  flush  swcfit  over  it.  But  this  passed 
instantly,  and  Bessie  said  : 

"  Well,  really,  Inez  darling,  I  hardly  knew 
what  I  was  doing,  I  was  sc  terrified,  and  I 
wondered  so  much  what  had  happened,  and  I 
was  so  fond  of  your  poor  dear  papa,  that  I 
read  it  witliout  thinking  that  it  was  his  let- 
ter. I  would  not  have  dreamed  of  reading  it 
though,  Inez  dcarost,  but  the  writing  was  si> 
familiar  that  I  thought  it  was  no  harm.  It 
was  my  own  dear  grandpapa's  writing,  and  I 
thought  it  was  something  about  me.  Sure 
and  anybody  would  have  done  that  same,  and 
never  have  given  it  a  thought." 

At  this  new  piece  of  information,  Inez 
started  in  fresh  amazement. 

"  Your  grandpapa  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  True  for  you,  Inez  dearest,  my  own 
darling  grandpapa ;  and  wouldn't  you  have 
read  a  letter  written  by  your  grandpapa  if 
you  had  been  so  excited,  and  so  frightened, 
and  didn't  know  what  you  were  doing?  And, 
after  nil,  there  wasn't  much  in  it  at  all,  at 
all.  Really,  I  could  not  make  it  out — not  one 
single  word,  dear.  AVhy  your  poor  dear  papa 
should  feel  shocked  at  such  a  letter  is  quite 
beyond  me — quite.  And,  really,  now  that 
same  I  don't  believe  at  all,  and  I  don't  think 
the  letter  had  any  thing  to  do  with  it." 

"  What  is  your  grandpapa's  na  ue,  Hes- 
sie?"  apkcd  Inez,  anxiously. 

"  Kevin  Magrath,  sure,"  said  Bessie. 

"  It  is  ;'.  very  unusual  name,"  said  Inez ; 
"I  never  heard  it  before." 

"Well,  Inez  dear,"  said  Bessie,  "poor 
grandpapa  is  in — in  trouble — most  of  the 
time — and  I  don't  generally  introduce  his 
name  into  conversation.  He's  never  done 
the  least  harm  in  life — poor,  dear  grandpapa  ! 
— but  the  world  is  hard  on  him." 

"  Do  you  know  what  he  meant  by  those 
letters  B.M.  ?  " 

"  Surely  not.    ITc  w  should  I  know  that  ?  " 

•'  He  said  that  B.  M.  U  alive,  and  had  come 
back." 


"Did  ho?  Really,  the  words  Iiad  no 
meaning  to  mc,  Inez  dearest,  and  I  have 
forgotten  all  about  them." 

"  Don't  you  think  that  B.  M.  means  Ber- 
nal  Mordaunt?" 

"  Bcrnal  Mordaunt  f  Why,  that  ,  poor 
papa!  Why,  Inez  dearest,  what  can  you 
pos.silily  moan?  Sure  and  it's  joking  you  are!  " 

"Didn't  you  think  of  that?" 

"  Xi'ver,  till  this  moment,"  said  Bessie, 
solemnly.  "  Ilow  should  I  ?  I  read  the  let- 
ter without  understanding  one  sin^ile  word. 
It  seemed  to  me  like  one  of  the  puzzles  one 
reads  in  the  magazines.  Hut  what  do  you 
ni(!an  by  all  this  about  my  poor  papa,  Inez 
dear?  Really,  do  you  Know  you  make  mc 
feel  <|uite  timid  ?  It's  like  rai.sing  the  dead 
— so  it,  is." 

"  ,\nd  this  Kevin  Sliigrath  is  your  grand- 
papa ?  "  said  Inez,  in  whom  this  infunnation 
had  created  unbounded  ainazemenf. 

"Yes,"  said  Bessie,  "he  is  my  own  dear 
grandpapa.  He's  awfully  fond  of  mc,  too ; 
but  he  has  his  trials.  I'm  afraid  he's  not 
very  happy.  He's  eo  funny,  too !  I'm  sure 
I  somitimes  wonder  how  he  can  ever  have 
been  my  dear  mamma's  papa;  but  he  is  so, 
entirely." 

"  Your  mamma's  name  was  Magrath, 
then  ?  " 

"Of  course,  it  must  have  been,"  said 
Bessie,  simply.  "  But,  Inez  dearest,  are  you 
almost  through  ?  Do  you  know  you  really 
make  me  feel  tiervnus?  I  never  was  eross- 
qiiestioned  bo  in  my  life,  and,  if  you  don't 
stop  soon,  you  will  positively  make  mc  feel 
quite  cross  with  you.  I  never  saw  dear 
mamma,  you  know ;  and  1  hate  to  be  remind- 
ed of  my  lone  and  lorn  condition  " 

"Forgive  me,  Bessie  dearest,"  said  Inez, 
who  saw  that  Bessie's  patience  was  giving 
way.  "  I  will  only  ask  you  one  or  two  quc8> 
tions  more,  and  only  about  that  letttr.  Do 
you  icmembcr  noticing  a  tone  of  alarm  run- 
ning through  your  grand|)apa'8  letter?" 

"  Never  a  bit,"  said  Bessie.  "  Was  there 
any  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Inez,  "very  much  alarm. 
The  writer  ecenied  frightened  at  discovering 
that  B.  M.  was  alive." 

"  And  wliere's  the  wonder  ?  Sure,  I  my. 
self  would  be  frightened  out  of  my  senses  at 
that  same.  Now,  wouldn't  you,  Inez  dear- 
est— wouldn't  you  yourself  be  frightened? 
Now,  wouldn't  you— say?" 


I 

! 


MRS.   KI.KIN'. 


rorda  had  no 
t,  and   I   have 

M.  means  Ber> 

y,  thai  .  poor 
ivhat  can  you 
iking  you  are!" 
?" 

,"  fluid  IJcsHio, 
I  read  I  lie  1ft- 
e  sin^ile  word, 
lie  puzzles  one 
t  what  do  you 
loor  papa,  Inez 
you  nialvO  iiic 
i.sing  the  dead 

1  is  your  prnnd- 
lii»  information 
tncnt. 

9  my  own  door 
id  of  mo,  too  ; 
ofraid  lie'a  not 
too !  I'm  sure 
can  ever  Imvc 
;  but  lie  is  so, 

was    MagratI), 

re  b(cn,"  said 
learcst,  are  you 
now  you  rcolly 
levcr  was  cross- 
d,  if  you  don't 
make  me  frel 
evcT  saw  dear 
,e  to  be  remlud- 
ion  " 

est,"  snid  Incr, 
nco  was  pivinp; 
me  or  two  ques- 
hat  k'ttir.  Do 
c  of  alarm  run- 
s  lotler?" 
[>.     "  Was  tberc 

r   much    nlarm. 
at  diricovcring 

r  ?  Sure,  I  my- 
of  my  senses  at 
you,  Inez  dear- 
be  frightened? 


' 

1 

"Of  course;  but,  then,  this  lottor  spoke 
of  some  danger  that  my  papa  would  incur,  if 
this  '  H.  M.'  found  him.  ilo  advised  him  to 
run  away — to  Russia,  or  America." 

"  Did  ho  ?  "  said  Bessie,  with  a  bright 
smile.  "  Haha  I  the  omadlmwn!  Sure  and 
it's  ju<t  like  him,  for  nil  tlio  world  I  He's 
always  running  away  and  hiding  himself. 
Sure  and  I  can  explain  it  oil  to  you,  Inez 
jewel.     This  B.  M.  is  some  creditor." 

"  Creditor ! " 

"  Why  not  ♦  Don't  I  know  all  about  it  ? 
Isn't  poor,  dear  prandpnpa  head  over  heels  in 
debt,  and  always  in  hiding?  Isn't  he  afraid 
to  show  his  no.^e  in  Enirland?  Sure  and  ho 
is.  And  HO,  you  see,  Iiu'z  dearest,  that  must 
bo  what  ho  meant.  Your  poor,  dear  papa 
must  have  owed  money  to  this  B.  M.,  and, 
of  course,  this  It.  M.  is  going,  or  was  going, 
to  dun  him.  Oli,  if  you  had  been  brought 
up  in  Ireland,  you'd  understand  all  about  that 
same.  'Deed  and  you  would.  So  now,  my 
poor  Inez,  don't  worry  yourself  about  noth- 
ing. Don't  think  and  talk  about  things  like 
tlusc.  I  cannot  imagine  what  in  the  wide 
world  has  come  over  you.  You  really  shock 
mo.  And  all  about  a  stupid  letter  about  some 
stupid  money !  " 

With  these  words,  Bessie  woimd  her  arms 
fondly  about  Inez;  and,  when  Inez  opened 
her  mouth  to  ask  some  new  question,  she 
playfully  put  her  hand  against  it,  and  de- 
clared she  would  not  let  her  speak  unless  she 
promised  not  to  say  any  thing  more  about 
this  subject. 

"You  arc  talking  stupid  penenlogv,  Inez 
dear,"  said  she,  "and  I  positively  will  not 
listen  to  another  word.  I  cortaiidy  shall  bo 
angry  if  you  continue  your  cross-questions  a 
moment  longer.  They  make  my  head  aehc ; 
and  I  thiid<  you  are  very,  very  uiddnd,  and  I 
wouldn't  tre.\t  vou  so— so  I  woiddn't." 

Inez  found  it  impossible  to  resist  Bessie, 
and,  though  there  were  many  other  thinfjs 
which  she  wished  to  ask,  she  was  cnmpelltd 
to  leave  them,  for  the  present  at  least. 

But  what  she  had  learned  from  Bessie  did 
not  in  the  slightest  degree  quell  her  curiosity, 
or  satisfy  her  doubts,  or  soothe  her  suspi- 
cious. S(ill  there  rang  in  her  ears  the  dying 
words  of  Mr.  Wyverne— "  You  arc  not  my 
daughter!"— and  still  the  images  of  the 
three  portraits  (loated  before  her  eves. 


ClIAl'TKIl  XIV. 


VRS.  KLEi:r. 


TnK  conversation  with  Bessie  left  Inez  in 
a  great  state  of  doubt  and  hesitation.  As 
far  as  she  could  sec,  Bessie  had  been  perfect- 
ly frank  and  uncmborrasscd  in  all  her  statc- 
ment.i.  Those  statements  were  all  as  plain 
and  simple  as  they  possibly  could  be.  And 
yet  they  were  completely  at  variance  with  the 
suspicion  which  she  had  been  cherishing  ever 
since  Mr.  Wyverne's  death. 

Bessie's  story  was  plain,  simple,  and  intel- 
ligible. It  was  also  very  plausible,  and,  in- 
deed, far  more  credible  than  tlio  theory  of 
her  own  parentage,  which  she  had  raised  out 
of  Mr.  Wyverne's  declaration. 

It  was  this : 

liernal  Mordaunt  had  a  wife  and  two  chil- 
dren— Clara  and  Inez.  To  these  ho  was  ten- 
derly attached. 

At  the  birth  of  the  third  child  Mrs.  Mor- 
daunt had  died. 

This  third  eliild  was  Bessie,  and  she  was 
three  years  younger  than  the  "  Inez  "  of  the 
portrait. 

But  Bernal  Mordaunt's  grief  at  the  death 
of  his  wife  was  so  excessive  that  ho  could  en- 
dure his  home  no  lonjror.  He  left  the  coun- 
try, and  soon  after  died. 

Mrs.  Mordaunt's  father  now  took  these 
ehililren  under  his  care.  He  was  this  same 
Kevin  MaCTath  who  had  written  that  ill- 
omened  letter.  .Tuil^ing  from  Bessie's  feel- 
ings toward  him  ho  must  have  been  a  kind- 
hearted  man.  He  took  care  of  these  orphan 
children.  Two  of  them  died,  and  Bessio 
Monlaunt  was  left  alone,  the  last  of  that 
family. 

Now,  in  some  way,  her  father  seemed  to 
be  brought  into  connection  with  these  Mor- 
dauiits. 

How? 

No  doubt  as  guardian,  executor,  or  agent. 
Perhaps,  in  1  '  j  management  of  Bessie's  prop- 
erty, he  had  done  her  some  injustice. 

And  now,  out  of  all  this,  quick  as  light, 
niiig  there  (lashed  across  her  mind  what 
might  be  the  true  theory  of  all  this  trouble. 

Jlrr  faihfr  miyUt  have  nthtaken  her  for 

No  sooner  had  she  thought  of  this  than 
an  innncnsu  feeling  of  relief  came  to  her,    1} 


! 


eo 


AS  OPKX   QUESTION'. 


i  ! 


I  ! 
I' 


I  - 


eecmed  so  very  prubabic,  so  piTfcctly  nat- 
ural. 

There  had  evidently  boon  some  sorrow  on 
her  futher'a  soul,  ariiing  from  tho  conscious- 
ness of  wrong  done.  It  was  this  that  gave 
to  Lira  that  remorse  which  ho  felt,  and  of 
which  ho  spoke.  To  whom,  then,  had  this 
vrong  been  done  of  which  he  spoke  ? 

There  was  no  doubt,  both  from  tho  letter 
of  Kevin  Magrath  and  from  Mr.  Wyvcrne's 
own  words,  that  this  wrong  had  been  done  to 
Jiernal  Mordaunt.  Dcssio  herself  had  indi- 
cated the  nature  of  that  wrong.  Her  grand- 
father, she  said,  was  in  debt,  and  perhaps  Mr. 
Wyverne,  too.  It  may  have  been  that  these 
two  men  had  in  some  way  mismanaged  the 
estate  of  Bcrnal  Mordaunt,  and  for  this  cause 
they  dreaded  him  when  he  reappeared.  Bes- 
sie, then,  was  the  one  whom  her  father  had 
wronged.  In  his  illness  his  delirious  fancies 
brought  all  his  crimes  back.  She,  his  own 
daughter,  appeared  to  him  liko  tho  injured 
Bessie,  and  thus  it  was  that  as  she  came  near 
he  had  repelled  her  with  tliosc  words,  "  Vvu 
are  not  m.v  daughter!"  It  was  not  herself, 
then,  but  Bessie,  from  whom  he  had  shrunk  ; 
and  it  was  not  hers  but  Bessie's  hand  that  he 
liad  placed  in  the  hand  of  Dr.  Blake.  Per- 
haps all  along  ho  had  misunderstood  Dr. 
Blake's  attentions ;  had  thought  they  were 
given  to  Bessie ;  had  encouraged  them  for 
this  reason  ;  and,  finally,  had  at  last  sought 
to  make  some  recompense  to  her  by  giving 
her  to  bo  the  wife  of  an  honorable  man. 

It  was  not  without  a  sharp  pang  that  this 
last  thought  came  to  Inez,  but  no  sooner  had 
Dr.  Blako  occurred  to  her  mind  than  the 
thought  and  the  pang  passed,  and  away  in  an 
instant  went  the  soundness  and  stability  of 
Bessie's  theory. 

For  with  the  thought  of  Dr.  Blake  came 
the  recollection  that  Mr.  Wyverne  had  claimed 
him  as  his  son.  How  should  she  explain 
this? 

Again,  in  Kevin  Mograth's  letter,  he  had 
laid  particular  strcsfi,  not  on  licme,  but  on 
JnnI    IIow  should  she  explain  that? 

Again,  and  above  all,  how  should  she  ex- 
plain those  mysterious  memories  of  her  child- 
hood ;  how  account  for  her  dim  recognition 
of  thai  mother's  face  in  tho  portrait — that 
elder  sister?  To  do  so  was  impossible.  Had 
they  lived  at  her  father's  house  when  she  was 
A  child,  ^nd  had  she  thus  become  acquainted 
with  those  haunting  faces?    It  might  be  so, 


yet  to  her  they  seemed  more,  far  more  than 
pleasant  acquaintances.  What  was  tho  secre t 
cause  of  that  deep  emotion  which  she  felt  at 
the  sight  of  them?  Whence  arose  that  pro- 
found yearning  of  her  soul  over  that  mother 
and  that  elder  sister,  as  over  dear  ones  once 
loved  and  lost  ? 

It  was  evident  to  Inez  that  tho  past  must 
be  looked  into  by  means  of  the  help  of  others 
besides  Bessie.  Among  the  domestics  of  tho 
household  could  any  one  be  found  whoso 
memory  reached  back  far  enough  to  mako 
him  or  her  of  ony  use  in  the  present  in- 
quiry » 

No  sooner  did  lliis  question  oQcur  to  Inez 
than  she  at  once  thought  of  an  old  domestic 
who  occupied  a  very  peculiar  position  in  tho 
house.  Mrs.  Klein  had  onco  been  house- 
keeper, but,  having  fallen  into  a  species  of 
what  may  charitably  be  termed  decrepitude, 
with  which,  however,  gin  had  something  to 
do,  tho  active  duties  of  her  position  were 
handed  over  to  another,  and  Mrs.  Klein  was 
pensioned  off.  Mrs.  Klein's  present  residence 
was  well  known  to  Inez,  for  she  hod  been  in 
the  habit  of  paying  frequent  visits  to  the  re- 
tired potentate,  and  she  now  determined  to 
seek  her  without  delay.  Accordingly  the  car- 
riage was  ordered,  and,  after  about  an  hour's 
drive,  Inez  found  herself  before  the  humble 
abode  of  her  old  friend. 

It  was  about  two  o'clock,  and  Mrs.  Klein 
was  at  home.  Indeed,  the  first  glance  showed 
Inez  that  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  her 
to  have  left  her  home  ;  for  there  was  in  her 
gait  an  unsteadiness,  and  in  her  eye  a  rolling, 
watery  leer,  which  would  infallibly  have 
drawn  down  upon  her  the  attentions  of  the 
police  had  she  ventured  forth  to  any  distance 
from  her  humble  cot.  She  was  about  sixty 
years  of  age,  dressed  in  black,  with  a  frilled 
cap  on  her  head,  and  a  bunch  of  keys  dan- 
gling from  her  waist — these  last  the  emblems 
of  her  lost  sovereignty,  but  still  lovingly  re- 
tained from  the  force  of  habit.  She  was  stout 
and  decidedly  "  beery "  in  her  aspect  and 
manner,  and  there  was  a  fuddled  unctuousnei'S 
of  voice  in  the  way  in  which  she  greeted  Inez, 
and  a  maudlin  tearfulness  of  eye  which  showed 
that  her  naturally  keen  sensibilities  had  been 
subjected  to  tho  impulse  of  uome  gentle 
stimulant. 

"  Which  it's  welcome  you  truly  air  this 
day,  my  own  dear  child.  Miss  Iliny,"  she  be> 
gan,  in  a  whimpering  voice.     "An*  mo  think- 


1 


far  more  tlmn 
I  waa  tho  secret 
ikh  slio  felt  at 
irosc  that  pro- 
er  that  mother 
dear  ones  ouce 

t  tho  past  must 
;  help  of  others 
omestics  of  the 
)  found  whoso 
lOUgh  to  mako 
the   present  in- 

in  oQcur  to  Inez 
in  old  domestic 
position  in  the 
CO  been  bousc- 
lo  a  species  of 
led  decrepitude, 
id  something  to 
r  position  were 
I  Mrs.  Klein  was 
present  residence 
she  bad  been  in 
t  visits  to  the  re- 
w  determined  to 
lordingly  the  ear- 
about  an  hour's 
■fore  the  humble 

k,  aiul  Mrs.  Klein 
rst  glance  showed 
n  difflcult  for  her 
there  was  in  her 
her  eye  a  rolling, 
1    infallibly    have 
attentions  of  the 
tb  to  any  distance 
3  was  about  sixty 
ack,  with  a  frilled 
inch  of  keys  dan- 
!  last  the  emblems 
t  still  lovingly  re- 
jit.    She  was  stout 
n  ber  aspect  and 
idled  unctuousnei'S 
h  she  greeted  Inez, 
f  eye  which  showed 
osibilities  had  been 
B    of   liome  gentle 

you  truly  air  this 
liss  Hiny,"  she  bc- 
e.     "  An'  me  think- 


' 


i 


to 


m 


MUS.   KLKIX. 


61 


1^1 


^S 


L^ 


f*\A\ 


■\\\, 


In'  tlint  I'd  die  willioiit  tlio  sif-'lit  of  your 
sweet  face,  nn'  left  'cro  alone  in  tlio  cold 
world  that  leaves  mo  to  pine  and  lanRuitch, 
an'  no  ono  left  to  lovo  mo  now,  an'  you  too 
may  forget,  ns  tlio  pood  liook  pays  !  An'  so 
lie's  dead  an'  gone,  nn'  the  grass  waves  over 
he,  which  ho  was  ever  a  kind  friend  to  me, 
an'  a  bravo  soger,  well  used  to  war's  alarms, 
though  ho  did  pension  mo  off,  an'  mo  as 
hactyvo  an'  ns  niniblo  as  a  kitten,  an'  never 
'ad  a  day's  illness  in  all  my  life,  since  I  was 
a  child  witli  tlio  measles,  an'  managed  that 
'ouso  like  clock-work  nigh  on  twenty  year, 
wliich  ho  says  tliere  was  never  any  other 
'ousekceper  tliat  could  'old  a  candle,  and  'im 
dead  an'  gone  below  !  " 

And  with  this  rather  equivocal  conclusion 
to  her  somewhat  incnherent  address  Mrs. 
Klein  drew  forth  an  enormous  bandanna  hand- 
kerchief, and  mopped  away  vigorously  at  her 
eyes. 

Inez  took  a  scat,  and  waited  patiently  for 
Mrs.  Klein  to  overcome  her  emotions.  At 
length,  tho  old  lady  drew  a  long  sigh,  and, 
putting  out  her  band,  took  an  old  teapot 
from  tho  table  near  her,  and  poured  from 
this  into  a  tumbler  a  colorless  liquid  that 
looked  like  water,  but  wlioso  pungent  odor 
announced  the  presence  of  gin. 

"  Which,  after  bereavement  and  melan- 
eholick,"  she  said,  "  there's  nothink  so  'ole- 
porao  an'  'onlthy  as  a  drop  of  this,  took,  Miss 
Hiny,  only  as  a  mediciiik,  on'  to  stimmylato 
tho  mind  an'  lieaao  tho  'art,  wliich  I  alius 
docs  before  I  hover  goes  to  my  blessed  bed  at 
night,  an'  would  'umbly  recommend  the  same, 
with  my  'umble  dooty  an'  best  wishes,  for  you 
an'  yours,  an'  'opin'  your  dear  benefactor  left 
you  comfortable,  which  wo  shall  not  sec  his 
like  again  in  this  vale  of  tears,  an'  'c  was  as 
good  as  a  fiither  to  you—" 

The  old  lady's  boo/.iness  and  twaddle  had 
begun  to  discourage  Inez,  who  saw  no  chance 
of  getting  any  intelligible  information  from 
such  a  fuddled  brain  ;  but  suddenly,  in  the 
midst  of  this,  the  last  remark  of  Mrs.  Klein 
startled  her,  and  she  began  to  tliink  that 
perhaps,  by  humoring  the  drunken  creature's 
fancy,  she  might  get  more  out  of  her  than 
sho  would  be  able  to  do  if  she  were  sober. 
For,  in  the  old  days,  she  had  never  given  ut- 
terance to  ony  thing  that  came  so  near  to 
Inez's  suspicions  as  this.  In  her  later  days, 
she  had  been  occasionally  a  littlo  excited  by 
gin,  but  never  so  much  as  to  be  off  her  guard. 


"  Yes,"  chimed  in  Inez,  anxious  to  see 
how  much  Mrs.  Klein  would  tell,  "he  was  as 
■•ood  08  a  father;  ho  couldn't  liavo  done 
more  if  he  had  really  been  my  father." 

"  Which  there  never  was  o  truer  word,  an' 
'iin  with  'is  own  son  lost  to  'im,  as  a  body 
may  say,  an'  the  wife  of  'is  boosom  turned 
ogin  'im,  an'  you  not  'is  liown,  an'  In  this 
world  men  'avo  'ord  'arts  when  they  'ovo  to 
bring  up  them  as  is  not  their  hown — oil  but 
'im,  ns  never  spoke  of  you  but  with  lovin' 
kindness  an'  tender  mussies,  on'  ever  shall 
bo.  '  Mrs.  Klein,'  says  he,  '  you  'avo  a  lovink 
'art,  on'  I  hintrust  this  'ere  lone  balio  of  the 
woods  to  you  to  brink  hup  as  my  hown.  Call 
her  by  my  hown  name ;  treat  'cr  as  your 
young  missus  ;  be  virtoous,  nn  'you  will  bo 
'appy — to  bo  brunk  hup  in  Wisdom's  ways, 
which  is  ways  of  pleasantness,  an'  hall  her 
paths  is  paths  hof  peace.'  Which  them's  'is 
hown  words.  Miss  Iliny,  as  hover  was,  an'  'im 
a-confidink  in  me,  as  knoo  'ow  fully  'c  might 
confide.  An',  'Don't  you  hevcr  tell  'cr,'  'o 
says,  'but  what  she's  my  hown,  for  hit'U  be 
hall  the  same  to  'er  in  tho  bend ;  an'  to  be 
brunk  up  soberly,  righteously,  on'  piously, 
hall  the  days  hof  her  life,  an'  has  my  hown 
daughter — Misa  "yverno — hany  think  to  the 
controiry  'ereoi  ,ii  hany  wise  notwithstand- 
ink.' " 

"  ITow  old  was  I  then  ?  "  asked  Inez,  in  a 
tremulous  voice. 

These  wandering  words  were  certainly 
confirming  her  worst  i'ears,  and  bringing 
back  all  hor  worst  suspicions. 

"Ay,  'ow  liold,"  the  old  creoturo  went 
chattering  on — "  which  it's  a  mere  child  you 
was,  not  hover  fower  year,  an'  not  as  much  ; 
an'  there  was  your  sister,  a  fine  girl  of  twelve, 
that  was  sent  to  the  nunnery  in  France — " 

"  France ! "  exclaimed  Inez,  in  deep  ex- 
citement. 

"Oh,  I  know  it;  I  remember  it,"  said 
Mrs,  Klein,  positively.  "  An'  me  'earin'  all 
about  the  proposules,  an'  she  o-cryink  like  a 
babby  at  leavink  of  you.  But  I  comforted 
'or,  an'  I  says :  '  Cheer  up,  littlo  Clara  ;  you 
shall  see  Iliny  soon,  if  so  be  as  you  be  a  good 
girl,  an'  go  lioff  quiet.'  An'  so  she  bade  a 
long  adoo  to  things  below." 

"  Was  Mrs.  Mordount  there  ? "  asked 
Inez. 

Ilor  heart  was  throbbing  painfully,  and 
she  could  speak  with  difficulty.  She  asked 
this  question  and  named  this  name  so  as  to 


AN    OPEN    'lUESTIOX, 


iHi 


' 


test  licr  suspiuious  to  the  uttermost,  and  put 
tbcm  beyond  a  doubt. 

"Oh,  ny,  iiy!  an'  bo  you  remember  the 
name — poor  hidy  ! — which  'er  name  I  •.emcm- 
bcr  well,  though  never  seeink  '<•.,  beink  dead 
an'  goue  before,  nu'  you  two  hdn^  horpliaiis 
hi  tlio  cold  world  below.  An'  my  poor  'art 
bled  for  you  two  In  your  dissolute  state,  which 
your  .ma  beink  dead,  an'  your  pa  beink  fled 
far  away  into  strange  lands,  an'  me  'eariii' 
at'temard  that  'e  di  d  in  heggsilo — which  Mr. 
Wyverne  'e  stood  lor'ard,  un'  says  to  me: 
'That  child  slial'  bo  mi.ie,  to  be  brunk  up  in 
the  lap  of  higsury,  an'  you  be  kind  an'  faith- 
ful, an'  name  your  hown  reward.'  iJut  I  upa 
an*  says;  '  My  rc.varJ,  sir,  uxin'  your  'umb'.o 
pai-.l"ik  for  bcin'  so  bold,  hi.i  io  be  a  father 
U  the  fav'.ierlci  8  an'  a  niot!;er  to  the  raolhcr- 
lt'18.'  An'  ho  .iays :  '  You  arc  right,  an'  I 
ci.mmcnd  'er  to  your  faithful  boosoni '  " 

"  Why  did  Mrs.  Wyvorne  leave  her  h';^- 
band  ?  "  asked  Inez  once  more. 

"  Which  'e  wus  alius  a  kind  'ushanJ  an'  a 
faithful  lallioi  an'  nobody  can  deny — no,  not 
Iie-cii  'c"-  as  li;!t  iiim  to  die  hof  a  broken  'ail 
•—an'  ever  'aJ  a  l.iiid  wcrii  f)T  hal;  tlic  'o'lse- 
'olJ;  nil'  took  'er  son  an'  ''a — n,i.sil — 'im  !  "■ 
in'  rot  hover  six  year  he!  f,  an'  in  long  curls, 
tl.0  .;e-C'e-eaiitirul  chih' !  An' 'c  nays  to  me, 
'y^cs.  Rleiii,'  an'  I  says,  'Si;,'  un'  'i  says, 
'They've  go  e,'  an'  I  says,  '  Wlio  ? '  Ar'  'c 
Bayp,  with  a  'alt'  whimper,  '  'ty  wile,'  'o  says, 
'au'  my  son — my  i»oy — my  Basi!!'  An'  I 
B'ys,  'Sir,'  says  I,  "opin'  no  horence,  a\i' 
axin*  your  pardirk — they'll  conie  h.ick.'  An' 
'e  ua."  s,  '>'Gver;  she'a  too  hobstiiiate,  an'  'as 
bid  a  'ietuui;d  haydoo.'  Sji-j*  I,  'Sir,  what 
fcr?  Isn't 'his 'ere  tliei.- proper 'ome?'  Says 
'e,  *  W'^'vc 'ad  a  tiffht,  an'  siie'fl  gone.'  'ays 
I,  '  About  wliat  r  '  Says  'c,  '  About  'er,  about 
little  liiiiy  '  An  'im  sc  kind  an'  ijvin'  that 
'e  treaU'd  'er  lile  .1  man,  on'  nov;.r  Iteven  ad- 
vertised her  lor  sood  'or  a  sepai-ntion,  nor 
notliink  ;  an'  me  hexpeeiin',  day  hafter  day 
an'  year  ntfter  jear,  that  she'd  relent,  an' 
come  'omc ;  but  reiont  sho  did  not,  an'  come 
'ome  ehe  did  never,  but 'id  'orsclf  eloje,  an' 
'as  never  been  'ec?d  hof  from  that  day  to  tlds 
blessed  "lomink.  Which  'er  'usband  bore 
the  cruel  blow  like  a  hangel,  an'  never  re- 
pined, but  showed  a  Chrii'tiang  fortitood,  an' 
forgnv  'is  honcmies,  an'  'i"-.!  a  good  'usbund  to 
'er,  never  a-comii.'  'ome  drunk  an'  beatin'  'er 
about  the  'oad  with  a  broom-'andle,  as  is  the 
CB86  witli  many  wivei,  but  kind  and  true  as 


'c  promised  an'  vowed  in  his  ni:irriage-bond 
before  the  haltar.  Which  if  it's  the  last 
word  I  hever  spake,  Td  go  to  that  woman,  an' 
look 'er  in  tlio  heyes,  an'  I'd  say  unto  'cr: 
'My  dear,  axin'  your  'umble  pardink,  I'l!  ad- 
wise  you  to  pack  hup  your  dud."  aii'  Oo  'oiiiu, 
for  hif  you  don't  hit's  a-goink  to  Lc  the  wusa 
for  you  an'  your  boy ;  which  'ere  is  Miss  Iliny 
a-twiiiiuk  'ersell  hayrouud  'is  'art,  iin'  a 
dau;;liter  to  'im,  'avin'  lost  one  father  lo  find 
a  father  in  'im,  an'  bein'  deservink  of  ii,  too, 
as  a  warm-'arted  gi>'I,  an'  as  dear  to  mo  as  a 
cliild  of  my  hown.'  " 

Inez  had  heard  enough.  She  had  no 
heart  lo  ask  ony  further  questions.  One 
tiling  she  had  learned  which  was  altogether 
new,  and  tliat  was,  that  this  s'.stcr  Clara  had 
been  sent  to  Vrance — to  a  "  nunnery,"  as  Mrs. 
Klein  said.  And  there,  thought  Inez,  she  mu't 
have  died.  Deeply  was  she  touched  by  Mrs. 
Klein's  remarks  about  Clara'.s  love  fur  the 
little  sister  froir  whom  she  had  to  part,  and 
her  heart  was  tilled  with  unutterable  regrets 
and  unutterable  longings  after  that  lost  dear 
•  ne,  who  loved  her  once  so  fondly. 

Mrs.  Klein  now,  being  no  longer  directed 
by  any  leading  questions,  went  oil"  in  a  series 
ol  remarks  of  a  hlghly-desultory  character. 
She  began  by  pressing  a  half-tuuibler  of  gin 
upon  Inez,  and  wept  freely  because  Inez  re-. 
ftised.  She  tiien,  sti'.'.  weeping,  swallowed  !». 
herself.  After  this  she  began  a  lamtutatiou 
over  the  wickedness  of  the  world  and  the  dc- 
piavity  of  the  human  heart,  as  exn'',pliii<>(l  in 
some  recent  bad  bargains  which  she  had 
made  in  her  favorite  beverage.  She  urged 
Inez  to  take  her  back,  to  live  with  her  aa 
companion  or  chapevon.  Finally,  ^.J:^  pro- 
duced on  old  clay  pipe  and  lighted  it. 

Inez  had  scarcely  heard  a  word  for  some 
time  past.  During  Mrs.  Klein's  desultory 
rambling  she  had  been  buried  in  her  own  re- 
flections, but  out  of  these  she  was  suddenly 
and  violently  drawn  by  a  strangling  and 
choking  sensation,  caused  by  the  smoke  of 
the  particularly  villunous  tobacco  in  Mrs. 
Klein's  pipe.  She  hastily  rose,  and,  without 
a  word,  rushed  to  the  door,  leaving  Mrs. 
Klein  talking  to  the  walls  of  her  house. 

About  the  truth  of  Mr''  Klein's  stato- 
tnents  Inez  had  not  the  sligh'.cst  doubt. 
Had  she  been  perfectly  sober,  it  might  have 
been  possible  to  suspect  !'.•■;  of  acting  up  to 
some  plan  dcvi"";!!  long  ago  in  Mr  ^"'yverno'i 
life.    As  it  '  x»,  liuch  a  suspicion  war  im> 


INEZ  IlECEIVES  A  LETTEIJ. 


63 


possible.  Tbo  circumstances  under  which 
this  had  been  said,  and  the  way  in  which  she 
bad  said  il,  all  combined  to  show  Inez  that  it 
must  be  true. 

In  tl'is  state  of  mind  she  drove  liomo. 

And  now  Dessie  met  her.  She  rushed 
down  the  stairs,  and,  claspins  her  in  her 
arms,  kissed  her,  and  reproached  her  lov- 
ingly for  going  out  alone. 

"h.M'caiid  you'll  never  be  your  own  old 
self  again,  Inez  darling,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I 
had  begun  to  hope  that  you  had  got  over 
j-our  reserve,  and  ret'oence,  and  sadncs.s,  an  ". 
solitary  ways,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I 
can't  stand  this  at  all,  iit  all.  Ueally,  Inez 
duriih.t,  you'll  break  my  heart.  Why  should 
you  hold  yourself  aloof  from  nic,  and  why 
won't  you  come  back  to  /our  old  familiar 
ways,  (ioar?  Positively,  if  you  treat  me  so, 
I  shall  have  to  f;o  away,  for  I  shall  feel  that 
you  no  longer  lil — lil — love  luum — mum — 
me." 

And  here  Bi'ssio  burst  into  tears. 

Iiiex  kissed  her,  and  tried  to  soothe  her, 
and  felt  real  self-reproach  at  having  inflicted 
so  iKiieh  pain  on  this  innocent  child. 

"  it  was  only  some  foolish  business  of 
mine,"  said  she. 

"  But  you  have  no  business  to  have  any 
foolish  business  at  all,"  said  Bessie,  fr"M'iilly. 
"  You  have  no  right  to  wound  mc  i'\  1^  vas 
hard  enough  before,  but,  after  we  made  frieiiJs 
again,  it  was  very,  very  cm.!  iu  you,  Inez 
de:ir.  Irs  myself  that's  bcci  Uio  niiscrnble 
girl  this  day,  and  it's  fairly  heart-broken  that 
I  am  with  you  ;  and  you  won't  do  so  again, 
darling,  now  will  you?  You  wdl  not  be  so 
cold  and  unkind,  now  will  yon,  Inez  dear- 
est?" 

Inez  promised  not  to  olTond  again,  whore- 
ii-^m  B«Hsio  grew  calm,  and  the  two  spent 
the  rest  of  the  day  together  as  much  on  their 
old  terms  as  was  possible,  when  the  heart  of 
one  of  them  was  \»  rung  wiih  the  remembrance 
of  that  which  she  had  heard,  and  when  her 
mind  was  porplcxed  with  the  problem  of  her 
life,  and  the  image  of  the  gentle  sister  Clara 
was  ever  fl.iating  before  her  imagination. 

iSho  retired  early  that  night,  and  ai  last 
fouiid  herself  alone. 

Here  tliero  was  one  thought  that  perplexed 
her. 

This  wai  Bessie  Mordaunt — this  girl  who 
bore  that  name,  and  gave  Uiat  account  of  her 
pareuia^c. 


Inez  had  now  not  a  duubt  loft  that  sho 
was,  in  very  truth,  Inez  Mordaunt,  daughter 
of  licrnal  Mordaunt. 

She  had  now  not  the  slightest  doubt  that 
Bessie's  account  of  herself  was  utterly  false. 

Uid  Bessie  know  this  V  Impossible.  Bes> 
sio  would  not  deceive.  Bessie  herself  must 
bo  deceived. 

But  how  ? 

Evidently  Bessie  :iiusl  have  been  brought 
up  all  htr  life  in  this  belief.  She  E'atod  it 
so  calmly  and  so  simply,  and  it  agreed  so 
perfectly  with  her  mode  of  thought  and  her 
position  in  this  house,  past  and  present,  that 
she  must  belie  t-e  in  what  she  said.  Vet  it 
was  all  false,  and  Bessie  had  been  carefully 
brought  up  to  believe  it  as  true. 

How  could  this  have  happened  ?  Who 
could  have  instilled  into  her  so  long  and  so 
carefully  all  these  lies  1  What  could  have 
been  the  motive  of  it?  Could  it  have  been 
Mr.  Wyvcrno?  If  so,  why  had  he  done  it? 
Or  could  it  have  been  that  man  who  had 
brought  Bessie  uj) — her  "dear  graudpapa," 
Kevin  Magrath  ? 

That  was  the  question. 


CUAPTER  XV. 

INEZ    RECKIVES   A    LETTKIl 

That  she  had  been  all  alorg  the  victim  of 
some  dark  plot,  Inez  now  felt  confident ;  but 
whether  Mr.  Wyverne  was  the  originator  of 
the  plot  or  not,  she  could  not  tell.  There 
wore  many  other  things  also  which  perplexed 
her.  What  was  the  position  of  Bessie? 
Taking  her  honesty,  good  faitii,  and  perfect 
ini'jcenco  for  gnmtcd,  what  was  her  place 
in  this  involved  net-work  of  circumstances t 
Was  she  too  a  victim  ?  or  was  she  the  prnllijee 
of  the  unknown  conspirators?  Who  was 
her  "  grandpapa  ?  "  What  part  had  he  borne 
in  all  this?  What  was  lis  altitude  with 
regard  to  her?  and  what  had  been  his  atti- 
tude toward  '(r.  Wyverue  ?  Above  all,  what 
was  the  motive  of  the  conspiracy  ?  That  it 
was  a  conspiracy  o."  no  common  kind,  she  felt 
8'''e.  It  had  begun  long  ago,  aid  had  been 
carried  on  for  years  What  was  the  purpose 
of  llioso  two  coufeia'rates — Wyvorne  ond  Ma- 
grath?   What  crJ  did  they  pre ..asc?    Waa 


64 


AX   OrEN   QIESTIOX. 


i 


it  revenge  ?   or  was  it  uvaric!  ?     Was  there 
aDy  thill);  of  lierx  that  tlioy  mi^ht  gain  ? 

Of  course,  tlicso  questions  vould  not  be 
answered,  and  this  last  one  «.  s  the  grcatCHt 
puzzle  of  all,  for  it  was  imposaiblo  for  her  to 
imagine  what  could  have  been  the  cause  for 
which  these  men  imd  trnnicd  so  deep  a  plot, 
and  elaborated  it  so  patientir,  and  carried  it 
out  so  carefully. 

Bcrnal  Murdaunt  was  her  fitlhcr.  She 
now  believed  this  without  the  slightest  linger- 
ing doubt. 

Uernal  Mordaunc  was  a  priest.  Whntwas 
the  meaning  of  this  ?  This  was  a  point  that 
she  could  not  comprehend.  That  he  was  a 
Iloman  Catholic  and  not  an  Anglican  priest, 
sho  knew  from  the  allusion  in  the  letter  to 
his  "  ecclesiastical  business  "  at  Konic.  What 
wus  the  meaning  of  that  ?  Was  this,  then,  the 
cause  why  her  parentage  had  beon  so  care- 
fully concealed  ?  Was  this  the  cause  of  his 
flight — his  neglect  of  his  children?  Was 
th«  alTeclion  of  Mr.  Wyvcrne,  seeking  to  save 
her  from  shame,  that  had  surrounded  her 
with  all  thin  mystery  ?  Was  this  the  reason 
fhttt  her  sister  Chira  had  been  sent  to  a 
nunnery,  and  hcrsi'lf  br  ..ght  t'p  as  Mr. 
Wyvernc's  da\ighter  y  Was  this  .  o  ?  and,  if 
so,  was  it  not  possible  '.hat  Mrs.  Wyvcrne 
may  have  (|uarrolled  with  her  husband  on  the 
ground  that  he  was  receiving  a  child  of  shame 
into  his  household,  and  had  taken  herself  and 
licr  son  from  the  presence  of  such  pollution  ? 
Could  this  bo  so  i 

This?  Impossible.  It  was  not  of  alTcc- 
tion  and  selfnacriflce  that  Mr  Wyvcrno  spnUe 
on  his  dyint;  bed.  It  was  of  repentanco  loi 
crime.  It  was  remorse.  It  was  the  agoniz- 
ing desire  to  make  on  atf  ement  for  wrongs 
which  ho  had  done  to  her  father. 

That  fiilhcr  had  come  to  him  tl'cro  at  that 
bedside — the  injured  man  had  seen  the  of- 
fender, with  what  result  she  ha<l  heard  from 
Dr.  niakc.  Of  the  real  horror  of  that  meet- 
ing, however,  fuo  knew  nothing,  fur  llliike 
had  kejit  t!int  a  profound  secret  from  Iicr. 
She  haii  merely  understood  from  him  that 
Mr.  Wyvcrne  had  'lied  the  moment  the  priest 
had  entered  the  room,  and  that  not  one  word 
hud  pastied  between  thoni. 

There  were  various  qiiestions,  roh«et|nent 
upon  her  knowledge  of  the  fact  of  this  n>co!- 
>!!»  which  nerved  to  perplex  hdr  mind  still 
fUrthi^r. 

Jla  1  her  fither  recognized  Mr.  Wyvcrno  Y 


Pho  tlir>ug+it  not,  and  for  various  reasons.  In 
the  iirst  i>lacc,  she  rememborcd  tho  fearful 
change  that  had  taken  place  in  Mr.  Wyverne's 
face,  and  judged,  rightly  enough,  that  sach  a 
change  would  make  all  recognition  impossi- 
ble, espcciully  on  the  part  of  one  who  had  not 
seen  him  for  fourteen  years. 

If  he  had  not  recognized  him,  had  h«  at 
least  known  his  name  ? 

This  also  she  thought  i'npossible.  If  ho 
had  heard  so  uncommon  a  name  as  Wyvcrno 
mentioned,  particularly  the  full  nnmo  Hr.nni- 
gar  Wyvcrne,  ho  would  have  been  struck  by 
it  at  once.  If  so,  he  would  not  have  gone 
away  so  hurriedly  after  that  death — making 
no  inquiries  adfr  those  whose  guardian  Ilen- 
nigar  Wyvcrne  hud  been.  No  ;  the  priest  had 
probably  arrived  lat.>,  as  lilakc  said,  from  a 
hurrie<l  journey  ;  had  been  summoned  almost 
from  his  bed  to  the  dying  man ;  and  then, 
without  recognizing  him,  or  learning  his 
name,  had  continued  his  hdrried  journey. 

The  question  now  arose  whether  he  had 
not  found  out  since  who  this  man  w.%s.  lie 
must  have  done  so.  The  notice  of  Hennigar 
Wyverne's  deatli  had  been  pul)lished,  and 
would  of  course  meet  her  father's  eyes,  IIo 
would  then  learn  who  it  was  that  had  died  so 
suddenly. 

And  what  then?  What,  in  fact,  would  be 
his  ac  ijn?  Tim  letter  of  Kevin  MagratU 
stated  that  her  father  was  at  Home,  and  was 
going  to  Enj;land  to  see  Wyvcrne.  About 
what?  The  answer  was  piven  in  the  letter, 
in  part  at  least :  "  Inez  must  be  got  rid  of." 
It  wus  for  her,  then,  that  her  father  was  com- 
;.  8ho  was  in  part,  at  least,  the  object  of 
his  journey,  and  of  his  buxincss  in  Knglaml. 

Would  the  death  of  Ilennigar  Wyvcrne, 
now  no  doubt  well  known  to  her  father,  make 
any  din'ercuco  in  his  movements?  Would  he 
still  come  to  seek  after  her?  What  if  lies 
had  reached  him,  such  as  those  amid  which 
lies^io  had  been  brought  up  ?  What  if  Im 
iiad  heard  and  believed  that  his  daughters, 
Clara  and  Inez,  were  dead  long  ago?  Could 
she  ex|M'<'t  that  he  would  ever  search  after 
her?  Wyvcrne  being  deail,  what  business 
would  he  have  in  Kngland?  On  the  other 
hand,  how  KhouM  she  find  him,  or  cU'cct  com- 
munieatii'n  with  him  in  any  w.iy  ? 

Of  the  two  putters  to  nhom  ihe  could 

tract)  tlio  groat  conspiracy  which  had  enfo1de<l 

her  and   liesslc  in    its  granp  from    earliest 

i  childl.uoi!,  one  was  de.td.     ISul  tho  other  to- 


m 


INEZ   RECEIVES  A   LETTER. 


05 


ttaiaed  What  would  bo  do?  Would  lie 
givo  up,  eonfcss  all,  and  set  tbinga  straight 
before  the  worfd  ?  or  would  ho  coiitinuo  to 
carry  on  his  work  ?  IIo  was  ncssieV.  "  grand- 
papa." Ilo  wat),  no  doubt,  using  lior  as  a 
tool  for  his  own  purposes.  Would  be  ."till 
trj  to  bafflo  Bernal  Monlaunt  ? 

Kevin  iuaj^v-itli,  in  the  letter  which  bo 
bai?  written  to  IJennigar  Wy vcrne,  had  spoken 
obout  Bcrnftl  Mr  rdaunt  with  undisguised  alarm ; 
but  from  that  letter  it  was  Wyverne  who  had 
chief  taus'  for  fear.  So  formidable  au  ene- 
my "^as  Uornnl  Mordaunt,  that  flight  or  pre- 
tended (leath  were  the  only  ways  by  which 
the  terrors  of  his  presence  could  be  evaded. 
Was  the  danger  which  had  been  so  dreadful 
to  Wyverne  less  dreadful  to  Kevin  Ma- 
grath  ? 

Not  one  of  tliesp  questions  could  she  an- 
swer. The  one  wtiieh  was  most  important 
to  her  was  about  her  i'ather's  possible  move- 
ments. Did  he  know  that  she  was  alivo? 
Would  he  eorao  to  England  ? 

Since  that  mcraorahic  doatli  at  Villcncuvo 
a  fortnight  bud  passed  away.  No  signs  bad 
presented  themselves  as  yet  of  his  appearance. 
This  did  not  look  like  haste  on  liis  part.  Tho 
delay  seeinod  unnecessary.  It  looked  as 
though  ho  did  not  know  of  her  oxisten^  \  It 
looked  as  though  ho  had  heard  of  Wyverne's 
death,  and  bad  given  up  his  design  of  going 
to  England. 

After  breakfast  that  day,  a  letter  was 
banded  to  Inez. 

She  looked  at  it  in  amazement;  it  boro 
tho  postmark  of  I'aris.  Who  coulU  write 
her  from  Paris  ?  There  was  only  one — Dr. 
Itlake.  Hut  why  should  he  write  f  Perhaps 
it  was  somelliing  with  reference  to  Mr.  Wy- 
verne,  or  perhaps  something  tho  thought  of 
which  excited  her  indignation.  Could  it  bo 
possible  ?  No,  it  com  I  not  bo  ;  ho  would  not 
dare,  at  such  a  time,  to  write  to  her  a  con- 
fession of  his  feelings. 

With  this  thought  she  loft  the  table,  and 
retired  to  her  room  to  rcDd  the  letter.  Tliere 
was  no  reason  why  she  shouM  not  (liiuk  so. 
Dr.  Hhikft  lived  at  Paris,  or  lodgf^d  thuro  for 
tho  present ;  she  had  no  other  acquaintance 
there ;  and  she  did  not  know  enough  of  his 
handwriting  to  judge  o'  tho  writer  of  tho  let- 
tor  by  the  address. 

Hut  the  lirst  words  of  tho  letter  at  once 
put  this  notion  to  flight.     On  optulng  it,  she 
nwid  the  following : 
5 


"My  DEARKST  Child  : 

"  Hy  this  time  you  know  all,  and  therefore 
will  t;ot  bo  surprised  at  finding  that  there  is 
one  olive  who  has  a  right  to  call  you  by  timt 
tender  name.  Returning  homo  after  a  long 
absence,  during  which  you  have  been  taught 
to  believe  mo  dead,  or  rather  have  been  kept 
in  ignorance  of  mo  altogether,  my  only  bu-ii- 
ness  now  is  to  fold  my  beloved  daughter  in 
my  arms,  and  save  her  from  tho  machinations 
of  those  who  so  long  hare  had  Lcr  in  their 
power. 

"  It  was  ray  astonishing  fate  to  meet  Mr, 
llennigar  Wyverne  at  Villencuve.  1  was  on 
my  way  from  Rome  to  England  with  no  other 
purpose  than  to  see  that  very  man,  and  re- 
ceive from  him  an  account  of  those  dear  ones 
whom  I  had  intrusted  to  him  years  before. 
At  that  inn,  just  after  a  short  night's  rest,  I 
was  requested  to  visit  a  dying  roan.  I  at  once 
went  to  the  room,  and,  to  my  utter  amaze- 
ment, found  before  me  the  very  man  I  sought. 
Fearfully  changed  though  he  was,  I  recognized 
him  ;  for  beneath  the  mere  outline  of  features 
there  is  always  something  more,  which,  as 
long  as  life  lasts,  betrays  the  man.  And  here 
the  recognition  was  rautua'. 

"Although  ho  was  eviJontly  surprised,  yet 
my  presence  was,  after  a'l,  not  altogether  un- 
accountable to  him  ;  for  iic  had  heard  of  my 
return,  as  he  told  me  himself,  and  tho  dread 
of  meeting  with  mo  had  brought  him  to  this. 
I  will  not  tell  you  now  all  the  particulars  of 
that  interview,  when  the  soul  of  the  dying 
man,  already  hovering  on  the  verge  of  the 
eterr  1  world,  and  goin^  to  its  last  account, 
lingered  for  a  morarnt  to  try  to  atone  for  tho 
crimes  which  ho  had  committed,  to  try  to 
obtain  forgiveness  from  the  man  whom  ho 
had  wronged,  before  passing  into  tho  pres- 
ence of  his  Maker.  I  need  only  say  now  that 
ho  told  all,  witl'out  reservation.  All — all 
was  confessed.  1  bavo  the  consolation  of 
knowing  that  I  was  not  harsh  to  my  false 
fri^,.,<,  nor  deaf  to  iiis  appeal  for  mercy,  but 
forgave  him  all,  freely ;  and,  while  as  man  I 
forgave  the  injuries  that  ho  had  done  to  man, 
as  priest  I  gave  him  absclution  for  the  iiins 
which  he  hud  I'oi.imitted  .gainst  God. 

"  In  tho  midsi  of  th  ■  tremendous  agita- 
tions of  that  unparallel  .d  hour,  it  never  oc- 
curred to  the  poor  dyinf;  miin  to  mention  that 
you  were  in  the  hotel,  and  close  by  us,  even 
though  much  wa:"  S'lid  about  you.  He  in- 
fonneJ  mo  that  ho  hud  already  to'il  you  tho 


u 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


truth,  though  nut  all.  As  it  did  not  occur  to 
Lim  to  toll  mc  of  your  presence,  it  never  oc- 
curred to  mo  to  suspect  it.  I  had  thought 
of  you  always  as  a  cliild,  and  imagined  you 
at  boarding-school  somewhere.  It  was  not 
Vxjtil  I  came  hero  that  I  learned  where  you 
really  were  tlien,  and  where  you  arc  now. 

"As  it  was,  I  should  havo  remained  in 
Villeneuvo  long  enough,  at  least,  to  perform 
the  last,  sad  funeral-rites  over  one  who.  in 
spite  of  his  treachery,  had  once  been  my  most 
intimate  friend,  liut  I  could  not;  business 
of  an  urgent  nature  required  my  immediate 
presence  hero  in  Parin,  and  I  had  no  remedy 
but  to  hurry  forward. 

"  But  the  emotions  called  up  by  that  meet- 
ing have  been  too  much  for  mc.  I  am  not  so 
young,  dear  child,  as  I  once  was,  and  I  have 
Buffered  very  much  in  body  and  in  mind  Jur- 
ing  the  years  of  my  absence.  Do  not  be 
alarmed,  my  own  child  Inez.,  if  I  now  inform 
you  that  I  am  unable  to  leave  my  chamber. 
I  have  delayed  writing  to  you  thus  far  from 
tho  hope  that  I  might  go  in  person,  but  the 
prospect  of  this  is  too  remote  for  my  impa- 
tience. Do  not  imagine  by  this  that  my  ill- 
ness is  at  all  dangerous.  It  is  not ;  it  is  se- 
rious—that is  all.  IJut  there  is  ono  thing 
which,  more  than  ail  drugs  and  remedies, 
will  give  uie  new  life,  and  raise  mo  up  from 
my  bed  ;  and  thai  ij  the  sipht  of  my  own  be- 
loved child — sweet  memorial  of  my  sainted 
wife,  whose  iniajre  is  Btill  enshrined  in  my 
heart,  for  whom  my  love  can  never  die.  (.'onie, 
then,  my  daughter  —  come  to  your  father  ! 
Come,  uiy  sweet  Inez,  my  only  treasure  in 
life !  I  long  and  yearn  to  look  upon  your 
face.  Do  not  diliiy.  Do  not  stop  to  nnikc 
any  preparations.  Do  not  even  think  of 
money.  You  will  find  every  thing  with  nie 
that  you  may  ueei).  Come !  I  shall  expect 
you  to  leave  on  the  very  day  when  you  re- 
ceive this,  and  I  hhall  count  the  hours  lill  you 
reach  me.  Hut  I  fear  I  ant  too  urgent.  I 
Bball  give  you  one  day,  then,  dearest  daugh- 
ter; and  after  that  I  shall  look  for  you.  lly 
address  is  No.  123  Hue  do  la  I'erroniero, 
Paris.  A  cairiapc  will  be  ut  tho  station,  ami 
my  servants  will  be  ready.  I  shall  send  tiomo 
friend  to  receive  you. 

"  I  can  wrilu  no  more  now,  aa  I  feel  ex- 
hausted, and  must  reserve  any  more  until  you 
oomc.  .In  niyi'r,  my  dearext  elillil  I  Mako 
bagto  ;  for  ni>  strength  in  fiiiling,  and  yr)u  are 
my  last  hope.     1  embrace  you  with  all  my 


heart,  and  wait  for  you,  my  own  piccious 
child,  with  indescribable  longing. 
"  Your  aileclionato  father, 

"Beunal  Mordaunt." 

Tho  l,andwriting  of  this  letter  was  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  the  address.  In  tho  ad- 
dress it  was  directed  in  a  round,  bold,  flowing 
hand  ;  bu  >  iu  the  letter  itself  i'  was  written 
in  a  trenmlous  hand,  with  froviUent  breaks, 
and  words  written  indistinctly.  It  looked  as 
though  it  had  been  written  by  some  one  who 
was  feeble  and  ill,  and  had  scarce  strength 
enough  to  conclude  his  task ;  for  toward  the 
close  it  became  very  much  less  legible,  as  if, 
having  liuishcd  it,  tho  writer  had  been  too 
exhausted  to  do  more,  but  had  to  commission 
another  to  write  the  address. 

There  were  certain  circumstances  in  this 
letter  which  at  another  time  would  have  be- 
wildered Inez  excerdingly.  One  was  tho 
Btory  of  the  cor.versation  between  licrnal 
Mordaunt  and  Ilennigar  Wyverno,  followed 
by  extreme  unction.  Dr.  lilake's  account 
was  altogether  the  opposite.  He  had  said 
positively  that  not  one  word  had  been  spoken 
by  either;  but  that,  as  tho  priest  camo  in, 
Wyverno  died.  Hero  was  a  discrepancy  so 
immense  that  eoch  version  desU-oyed  tl  1 
other  utterly.  Tho  othor  difllculty  lay  in  the 
fact  that  the  handwriting  of  Hernal  JJordaunt 
was  not,  in  the  slightest  dogree,  like  the  writ- 
ing of  that  Bernal  Mordaunt  whoso  short  note 
to  Ilennigar  Wyrerne,  accompanying  tho  por- 
trait,  lay  in  the  casket.  This  in  itself  was  a 
slight  thing,  and  could  easily  be  accounted  for 
on  the  ground  of  weakness,  change  wrought 
by  a  new  mode  of  life  and  increasing  years, 
or  the  nervous  irregularity  of  a  hand  unused 
of  late  years  to  hold  the  ])cn  ;  but  still,  in 
connection  with  the  first-mentioned  fact,  it 
was  signilioai>t. 

Both  of  tiiese  things,  aiul  others,  also, 
Inez  certainly  noticed,  but  failed  to  luy  any 
Btress  upon  thorn  whatever.  >Shc  wa^,  in- 
deed, quite  aicapablo  now  of  weighing  any 
thing  calmly.  That  lettir  had  produced  upon 
her  BO  overwliclihi'ig  an  ellect,  I'  ,m  tlici-e  was 
only  one  idea  in  Ijormind — hcrli-i'  i  rill  ii:  ''aris 
— seriously  ill— longing  'o  see  her  -calling  to 
her  to  como  to  him— counting  the  houri' — her 
father  looking  upon  her  as  his  only  hope  In 
lifu--l<ioking  to  litf  fi  r  s  nngth  to  draw  him 
up  from  his  bed  of  languishing — her  fathr  , 
with  his  unutterable  lovu  foi  lier,  und  ycatu- 


i\ 


FATHEU   MAGHATH. 


C7 


piecious 


DAUNT." 

•  was  dif- 
a  tlio  ad- 
Id,  flowing 
08  written 
it  brouks, 
,  looked  aa 
10  one  wlio 

0  Btrcnglh 
oward  tlio 
gible,  us  if, 

1  been  too 
.•omiiiission 

lees  in  this 
[d  Imvo  bc- 
B    wua    tlie 
cen  Ucinal 
10,  followed 
u's    account 
le  had  paid 
ijceu  spoken 
8t  canio  ill, 
icrcpancy  so 
Bd-oyed    tl  1 
ty  lay  in  the 
at  Mordaunt 
ike  the  writ- 
0  short  noto 
ing  ilio  por- 
itaeir  was  * 
ccounted  I'or 
npe  wrought 
easing  year!", 
liaiid  unused 
but  still,  in 
oncd   fact,  it 

olhors,  also, 
d  to  lay  any 

10  wa-",  iu- 
»oighing  any 
rodiiccd  upon 

tit  ilici'C  was 
i..rillii''uriii 
cr  —calling  to 
le  liourK — licp 

only  lio|io  la 

111  draw  liim 
X-  her  fatho  , 
and  yeiitu* 


ing  over  her.  How  piteous  seemed  to  her 
those  letteri*,  traced  with  so  feeble  a  liand, 
growing  fainter  niid  feebler  as  they  ap- 
proached the  end  of  the  sheet !  lloiv  pathetic 
that  allusion  to  her  mother — how  resistless 
that  call  to  her  to  come — how  lender  aud  sweet 
tliat  loving  urgency,  whicli  eould  seuroo  allow 
ono  day  for  making  her  preparations  to  travel ! 

Xo  idea  of  refusing  entered  her  mind. 
Such  a  call  must  be  obeyed.  Sho  must  go. 
ik'sidos,  it  was  the  thing  tiiat  she  herself  now 
longed  most  of  all  to  do.  She  began,  then, 
at  onco  to  pack  up  a  few  th.lngs.  She  had 
money  enough  in  her  piirso  to  take  hor  to 
Paris.  Hlic  nec'lcd  no  more  that,  enough  to 
tako  her  to  liis  bedside. 

One  tliought  of  Kessic  canio  to  her,  and  a 
slight  feeling  of  nadncss  at  thus  being  com- 
pelled to  quit  her  so  abcntly.  Slie  wondered, 
also,  wliat  excuse  i^ho  should  make.  .She  could 
not  show  her  tho  letter.  Though  her  own 
frank  nature  would  have  pronijited  sucli  a 
course,  her  consideration  forJiessic  restrained 
her.  It  wou'.d  only  bowiMer  hor  and  give  her 
pain,  licrual  Mordaunt  she  believed  to  bo 
her  own  father.  If  slio  was  ever  to  bo  unde- 
cciveii,  tho  explanation  would  have  to  conio 
from  tliose  who  had  deceived  her — from  her 
"grandpapa,"  Kevin  Magralh.  On  tho  other 
hand,  Inez  could  not  sloop  to  deceit  of  any 
kind,  and  therefore  was  unalilo  to  make  up 
any  plausible  pretext  for  hor  siidiien  depart- 
ure, lu  the  end  she  solved  this  particular 
dilHculty  by  tolling  Ilessie  that  she  had  to  go 
to  Paris  immediately  on  "busiiieiH  " 

Tliis  iiitelligenco  IJessio  received  in  a 
niui'li  belter  niaiiner  than  Inez  had  antici- 
pated. She  appeared  startled,  but  said  noth- 
ing against  it.  Slio  was  mournlul,  aud  ail'ei}- 
tionato,  and  very  palhelic 

"  Oil,  1  knew  ii,"  slio  nail.',  tadiy.  "  I  saw 
it  was  coming  to  tliir'.  I  know,  Inez  dearest, 
that  you  wcro  changed  and  didn't  lovo  me 
any  longer,  liut  there's  no  use  in  life  to  say 
any  tiling,  for,  when  love  grows  cold,  there's 
nut  the  least  use  of  complaining  at  all,  at  all. 
It's  a  changed  nature  you're  soeining  to  liavo 
just  now  cutirely,  Inoz  jewel,  but  I  hope  you'll 
bo  your  own  di;ar  self  again  bel'oro  very  long. 
Aud  Won't  you  promise  to  write  me,  Inez  dar- 
ling, as  (iflen  as  you  can,  for  I  shall  bo  per- 
feclly  frantic  till  I  htar  from  )ou  Y  U  soom-t 
awfully  uold  and  bravo  in  you.  so  it  does,  to 
go  oil' travelling  iliis  way.  I'm  sure  I  should 
uever  be  able  to  do  it — never." 


Inez  found  that  she  could  not  leave  till 
the  next  day.  Her  preparations,  however, 
were  very  simple,  ijlio  took  tSaundcrs  with 
her,  and  a  footman  was  to  accompany  her  as 
far  as  .Southampton. 

AVhen  Inc/  jirepared  to  start,  shu  found, 
to  her  surprise,  that  Dessio  was  dressed  for  u 
journey  also. 

"  You  need  not  think  vou'ro  going  to  got 
rid  of  mo  so  casilv,"  "•'''.  Uessie.  "It's  my- 
self that'll  bo  the  lone  girl  when  you  go,  and 
what  in  tho  widu  world  I'll  be  al'lcr  doing 
with  myself  without  you  I  don't  know,  6o  I 
don't.  And  so  I  mean  to  stay  with  you  till 
the  very  last  moment,  Inez  darling,  nnd  I'm 
going  all  tlio  way  to  ^'outlmmpton.  (  shall 
bid  you  good-by  on  the  pier,  and  I'm  sure  I 
think  you  might  bo  just  u  little  bit  alTcetion- 
ate  to-day,  dear." 

Ii.ez  was  deeply  touched  by  this  mark  of 
Hessie's  aU'eetion,  and  embraced  her,  and 
kis.sed  her  fondly.  They  then  drove  to  tho 
station. 

During  the  drive  to  Southampton  Bessie 
WHS  loving,  tender,  pathetic,  and  occasionally 
lachrymose,  i^lio  appeared  to  cling  to  Inez 
with  HO  much  tenderness,  that  Inez  felt  her- 
self drawn  to  tho  fair  young  girl  more  than 
ever,  and  wo.idered  how  ono  like  her  would 
bear  the  blo.v  of  being  told  that  her  nuiuo 
and  her  life  wore  a  deceit.  She  was  glad 
that  it  did  not  fall  to  her  lot  to  tell  liessie. 

On  tho  pier  at  t'outhamptnn  they  parted. 
Inez  went  with  Saunders,  and  llcssie,  after 
waiting  on  the  whi>rf  and  waving  he'-  hand- 
kercliicf  till  sho  ci  uld  no  longer  dis'.inguibh 
Inez,  returned  to  London. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

FATBCR    UAQBAtU. 

Am  Inez,  with  her  mcid,  Saundcra,  landed 
upon  the  pier  at  Havre,  several  persons  wero 
passing  down  on  ihoir  way  to  another  steamer 
which  was  just  about  to  leave  to:-  Southamp- 
ton. Among  thoKo  waa  ouo  man,  and,  if  it 
hail  been  possible  for  her  to  recognize  that 
one  man  upon  that  spot,  thu  noognitiou 
would  havi'  ■hanged  altogether  thu  progreoi 
of  v'ircumKinnccs,  and  have  snatched  her  from 
the  fate  u|M>n  which  she  was  blindly  rushing, 
liut  aueh  a  recoguitiou  was  inipossible,  nud 
Inez  passed  o'-  her  way-  a'viiy  from  (ho  un# 


li 


H 


M 


68 


AN  OPEN  QITESTIOX. 


■I      I 


man  who  could  Imvo  boIvciI  every  mystery, 
and  removod  every  difficulty — awiiy  from  tho 
man  wlio  could  Imvo  saved  her,  and  on  to  the 
station  to  take  tho  train  for  I'ari.s.  IIo  wast 
dressed  us  a  priest.  He  was  a  man  of  medi- 
um «tatiiri>,  with  ii  very  remarkable  face,  the 
expression  of  which  was  ho  strangely  coin- 
))oundeil  of  force  and  gentleness,  of  energy 
iiikI  meekness,  of  resolute  will  and  padiiess, 
that  the  eye  of  tho  most  cusual  observer  was 
irresistibly  drawn  to  tako  a  longer  observa- 
tion. He  carried  in  one  hand  some  wraps, 
and  in  tho  othjr  an  old  leather  valise,  woi'n 
and  battered  as  thouf^h  it  had  aeompanied 
its  owner  over  thousands  of  miles  of  journoy- 
iiif^s,  nnd  blaring  upon  one  end,  in  white 
painted  lettes,  tho  mark  B.  M. 

Following  this  man  wos  one  whoso  tali 
figure,  stern  ind  strongly-marked  features, 
and  8haj;;ry  mustache,  revealed  the  person  of 
Kane  ilciimuth.  This  journey  had  been  the 
result  of  his  recent  conversa.lon  with  Jflake. 
The  mystery  of  his  apparition  had  now  come 
to  bo  a  Icadinr^  idea  in  his  mind,  and,  as  his 
friend  hod  hinted  at  the  possibility  that  his 
wife  might  not  Imvo  died,  he  had  lesolvcd 
upon  this  journey  so  as  to  satisfy  his  nund 
oneo  for  all.  As  Mr.  Wyvcrni-,  her  guardiiin, 
was  dead,  that  resource  was  taken  away  from 
him,  and  he  could  think  of  no  one  to  whum 
he  could  Ppply  for  information  except  that 
Miss  Mordaimt,  to  whom  also  Mr.  Wyverno 
had  been  gimrdinn.  It  wa-i,  tlierefore,  to  no 
less  a  person  than  Miss  Itessie  that  Kane 
Ilelhnuth  was  making  this  journey. 

As  the  Bteainer  was  leaving  the  pier,  tiie 
priest  stood  on  the  deck  along  with  the  other 
passengers,  and  Kane  llellmuth  found  in  this 
man  a  mysterious  attraction  that  riveted  his 
gaze  in  spite  of  himself.  The  last  man  was 
lie  of  all  men  to  feel  or  to  yield  to,  if  he  did 
feel,  any  impulse  of  idle  curiosity ;  yet,  in  this 
case,  in  spite  of  his  ePbrts  to  check  himself, 
lie  found  his  eyes,  iio  matter  how  often  la 
would  force  them  to  look  elsewhere,  irresisti- 
bly drawn  back  a,<ain  to  fix  themselves  upon 
that  Bun-browneil  foee,  with  tho  deep,  cariK'st 
glance,  the  rr  loliite  purpoHc,  the  indeseribable 
pathos — that  face  which,  in  its  e.;pression, 
and  in  the  traces  of  the  years,  showed  Huch  a 
record.  It  was  a  ncord  of  a  life  of  no  com- 
mon kind — a  life  of  struggle  anci  of  suflcring 
^an  heroic  life,  yc.t  at  the  same  time  a  life 
which  mn-t  have  been  not  without  some  fid- 
tlnwut  of  the  lioliest  duties  of  that  oflleo 


which  his  garb  indicated — the  office  of  a 
Christian  priest.  Kane  llellmuth  thus  fcU 
his  eyes  attracted,  and  with  his  eyes  his 
heart ;  but  there  was  no  opportunity  of  mak- 
ing the  acquaintance  of  this  singular  man. 
Kano  Hcllmuth  was  naturally  of  a  reserved 
disposition :  tho  priest,  on  tho  other  hand, 
was  too  much  absorbed  in  bis  own  thoughts 
to  be  conscious  of  the  intercfit  which  he  had 
ewa.^'»ued  in  tho  mind  of  another,  and  so 
these  two,  '■  ho  might  have  found  much  in 
common  if  ^ney  had  become  acquainted,  passed 
on  their  diflerent  ways,  withiuit  exchanging 
any  word  wit  one  atiother.  After  leaving 
the  harbor  the  priest  retired,  and  was  seen  no 
more;  and  Kane  llellmuth,  who  felt  no  de- 
i^iro  to  rest,  and  no  capability  of  obti'ining  it 
if  he  had  desired  it,  paced  the  deck  for  hours. 
Arriving  at  .'Southampton,  he  saw  the  priest 
on  landing,  and  then  lost  sight  of  him  in  tho 
bustle  and  confusion  of  the  train  for  London. 

Kano  llellmuth  found  out  the  location  of 
the  house  of  the  late  Mr.  Wyverne  from  tho 
directory,  and  went  there  as  soon  as  possible. 
It  was  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

To  his  immense  disappointment,  ho 
learned  that  Miss  Mordaunt  was  not  at  home, 
and,  upon  further  and  more  persistent  inquiry, 
found  that  she  was  not  in  town.  I'pon  still 
more  urgent  inquiry  as  to  her  movements, 
John  Thomas,  with  whom  he  had  been  speak- 
ing, thought  thut  it  could  be  no  other  than  ii 
lover  who  could  be  so  persistent ;  and,  though 
Kane  Ilellmuth's  appearance  was  not  that  of 
tho  one  whom  John  Thomas  ndght  imagi'ic 
08  a  suitor  for  one  like  Miss  Uessie,  at  the 
same  time  John  Tlmmas's  heart  was  not  with- 
out some  sentiment  of  its  own,  and  he  thought 
that  such  a  visitor  should  not,  bo  dismissed 
too  hastily.  Se  he  went  into  'lie  house  to 
make  some  inquiries  before  i;iving  any  final 
answer. 

After  u  brief  absence  he  returned,  and  in- 
formed Kane  llellmuth  that  he  could  find  out 
all  he  wanted  from  Father  Magrath,  who  wns 
in  the  house,  and  had  sent  an  invitation  for 
him  to  come  in. 

Tnis  invitation  Kane  llellmuth  accepted. 
He  enter  ,'d  the  drawing-room,  and,  in  a  few 
momeiil'  ,  a  person  cami  in  who  introduced 
himself  us  tho  llcv.  Mr.  Magrath. 

Father  Magrath,  as  John  l'hc>mas  called 
him,  «"■'  a  n.«n  of  -ery  remarkable  appear- 
ance. He  was  dresscil  in  the  usual  gnrb  of  a 
priesf,  but  his  face  was  not  altogether  ia 


FATUER   MAGRATir. 


69 


keeping  with  Lis  coatuino.  lie  was  appnront- 
ly  about  fifty  years  of  nge,  of  medium  lieiglit, 
witb  a  frame  whoso  nervous  strength  and 
powerful  development  had  not  yet  felt  the  ad- 
vanee  of  years.  Ilia  hair  was  curly,  and  only 
slightly  sprinkled  with  gray;  ho  had  bright 
keen  eyes,  straight  thin  nose,  and  thin  lips, 
whieh  wero  curved  into  a  good  -  humored 
smile.  The  pervading  expression  of  his  face 
was  one  of  jovial  and  hilarious  good-nature. 
llo  wore  spectacles,  which,  however,  did  not 
conceal  the  keen  glitter  of  his  penetrating 
eyes.  His  face  was  unmistakably  Celtic  in 
its  character;  in  fact,  it  was  the  face  of  an 
Irishman,  and,  if  Father  Magrath's  name  had 
been  less  Irish,  his  face  would  of  itself  have 
been  sufBcient  to  proclaim  his  nationality. 

A  lew  questions  served  to  make  him  bc- 
<iuainted  with  the  fact  that  Kane  Ilellmuth 
wished  to  see  Miss  Mordaunt  for  the  sake  of 
making  inquiries  of  her  about  some  family 
matters. 

"Well,"  said  Father  Slagrath,  "she's 
nway  out  of  town,  and,  what's  more,  she 
won't  be  back  at  all,  at  any  rate  not  to  this 
house ;  but  I'm  her  father  confissor,  and  any 
qaistious  that  ye  may  have  to  ask,  of  a  rayson> 
Hide  ehyaracter,  I'll  be  quite  happy  to  an- 
fewer.  Ye'U  have  to  excuse  me  for  the  pris- 
iut,  however,  as  I'm  ingaged  on  some  busi- 
nesi  of  the  most  prissing  kind,  and  perhaps 
)c  can  neeme  ttorae  hour  wliin  I  can  mate  ye." 

Kane  liellmuth  thanked  him,  and  in- 
formed him  that  his  time  was  limited,  and 
that  the  earliest  possible  meeting  would  be 
most  acceptable. 

"Sure,  thin,"  Bald  Father  Magrath,  "  it's 
meself  tlikt's  sorry  tliat  I  can't  stee  with  ye 
just  now,  and  for  tliat  matter  any  time 
this  dee,  an'  not  before  to-morrow  ayvenin'. 
Could  ye  make  it  convaynient  to  come  to- 
morrow, in  the  ayvenin',  about  eight  o'clock  T 
If  so,  I'll  Lo  happy  to  have  ye.  Come  and 
Hpind  the  ayvenin',"  he  continued,  in  a  warm 
and  cordial  tone ;  "  I'll  be  alone,  an'  I  assure 
ye  I'll  be  dayloightod  to  have  the  plisure  of 
your  company.'' 

This  invitation,  so  cordially  extended, 
Kane  Hcllmuth  accepted  with  thanks,  and, 
bidding  tiie  friendly  pi  ifst  adieu,  he  retired 
to  pass  the  time  as  best  lie  could  till  the  hour 
of  llmt  meeting  should  arrive. 

IVmctual  ut  the  hour,  on  the  following 
day,  Kane  Hellinutii  roaihed  tiie  hojse,  and 
was  at  once  shown  into  the  brightly-lighted 


parlor.  Father  Magrath  was  not  at  home, 
but  had  left  a  polite  request  for  his  visitor  to 
wait.  In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  re- 
turned, and,  after  a  slight  delay,  he  entered 
the  room,  and  greeted  his  visitor  with  very 
great  warmth  and  cordiality. 

"Sure  and  it's  glad  1  am  to  see  you  this 
night,"  said  Father  Magrath.  "  It's  me  that's 
not  fond  of  loneliness  at  all  at  all.  AVo'lI 
make  an  ayvenin'  of  it  between  us,  thin.  I'm 
of  a  convivial  timpirament,  and  I  howld  that 
convivialectee  is  one  of  the  issinces  of  true 
injoyraint  in  loife.  So  v,''j'll  get  up  something. 
Is  it  whiskey  ye  take,  viiin,  or  cognac,  or  do 
yo  prifir  woine,  or  eel  ?  For  me  own  part,  I 
always  teek  whiskey." 

"  I  shall  bo  happy,"  said  Kane  Ilellmuth, 
pleasantly,  "  to  join  you  in  any  drink  that 
may  be  most  agreeable  to  yourself.  I  think 
that  whiskey,  as  you  say,  is  as  good  as  any 
thing." 

"  Sure  and  ye  nivir  spoke  a  truer  word," 
said  Father  Magrath. — "  Jeemes,  my  boy," 
said  he,  turning  to  a  footman,  "  the  whiskey ; 
bring  a  daycanter  of  Scotch  and  Irish,  and 
the  hot  wather,  with  the  it  ccteras, — And  je 
smoke,  too,  of  coorse  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Jeemes,  whin  ye're  about  it,  bring  the 
poipes  and  tobacco,"  added  Father  Magrath. 

At  this  Jeemes  retired,  and  soon  returned 
with  a  tray  upon  which  were  all  the  articles 
which,  in  the  opinion  of  Father  Magrath,  went 
toward  making  up  the  requisites  for  a  pleas- 
ant evening. 

"  Vis,"  said  Father  Magrath,  continuing 
pleasantly,  in  a  half-serious,  half-jocular  way, 
some  remarks  which  he  had  been  making ; 
"  as  I  said,  there  is  no  plisintniss  in  loife 
without  convivinleetee.  Of  coorse,  I  main 
it  in  a  harrumless  sinse.  It  was  not  in  veen 
that  the  ancients  ileevatid  convivinleetee  to 
the  skois,  and  made  it  one  of  the  occupee- 
tions  of  the  Olympian  dayeetios.  I'm  no  as- 
citic.  I  bclaive  inharrumlissand  innocint  joys, 
and  so  I  take  an  occasional  drop  of  somethin' 
warruni,  and  an  odd  whilf  of  the  poipe  at  in> 
thervatx.  Xow,  here  ye  have  whiskey,  1  i'i 
Scotch  and  Irish,  and  I  don't  know  which 
of  them  ye  prefer,  an'  I  Jon't  know  meself 
for  that  matter.  And  it's  a  noightr  difficult 
thing  to  decoide.  For,  ye  see,  there  are  two 
great  laiding  schools,  if  I  may  use  the  ixpris- 
sion,  of  whiskey,  the  Scotch  and  the  Irish,  or, 
lo  ixpriss  mcsilf  more  corrictlj,  the  Erse  and 


lilil 


jc:"^:^ 


70 


AN   OPKN    QUKSTIUN. 


I 


tbc  (laclic.  Itolli  fiiliooN,  liUo  botli  lifinorf, 
lire  an  iinccneotion  of  tho  radiant  I'cltio  jny- 
iiiufl,  wliii'li,  nniiil  all  its  gifts  to  mat),  lias  coii- 
tiiributi'dlliis  last  and  tliis  best  one,  whiskey. 
Now,  there  is  a  very  remarkable  (lintinction 
between  these  two  outcomes  of  the  (Celtic  jay- 
iiius.  One,  tho  Gaelic,  is  best,  whin  mixed 
with  hot  watlicr  and  taken  in  tl\e  shape  of 
toddy  ;  tho  otlier,  the  Kruo,  naids  not  the  for- 
eign a<larrunmrnt  of  hot  wather,  but  stands 
on  its  own  beesis,  as  a  pure,  unmixe<l  drink, 
which  in  itsilf  is  a  deloiprhf.  There's  a  deep 
pliilosophical  and  symbolical  i.iayning  iti  this 
whicli  I  !■  -cn't  time  to  ro  into  just  now,  but 
1  may  EUf^,'?ist,  in  passinp,  that  those  two 
drinks  ixplecn  in  some  inisure  tlio  varying 
jayniiis  of  tho  rispictivo  races,  and  the  in- 
ternal qualeetees  of  the  two  ma\  be  seen  in 
their  li(iuors.  Tho  Irisli  is  best  taken  raw, 
without  admixture  ;  tho  Scotch  is  best,  like 
the  nation,  niixod — that  is  to  say,  as  the  li- 
quor is  best  with  hot  wather,  so  the  (Jaclic 
race  in  Scotland  has  acliicved  tho  most  by  in- 
termixing and  blinding  with  the  Lowland  .'mix- 
on  populeotion." 

All  this  Father  Magrath  rattled  ofl"  in  a 
quick,  jovial  way,  pouring  out  gluspcs  for  him- 
self and  his  guest,  so  as  to  allow  ihomselvcs 
a  taste  of  each  of  tho  liquors  with  whicli  he 
professed  so  close  an  acquaintance.  He  poured 
out  the  Irish  whiskey  raw  in  two  wine-glass- 
es ;  but  the  Scotch  whiskey  he  poured  into 
tumbleri,  and  manufactured  into  toddy,  in 
accordance  with  his  own  curious  theory  about 
tho  utility  of  mixing  the  Gaelic  race  and  the 
Gaelic  whiskey.  Kane  Ilcllmuth  tastod  the 
Irish  liquor,  and  then  sipped  tho  Scotch  in  it.i 
form  of  Toddy. 

"  Ye'll  be  smoking,"  said  Father  Magrath. 
"  Ilerc  are  two  kinds  of  tobacco,  the  Turkish 
and  the  Virginian.  'Which'll  ye  have  ?  Here 
are  poipes,  unless  ye've  brought  yer  own  in  yer 
pocket,  which  I  always  do  myself." 

"  I  have  one,"  s.iid  Kano  Ilcllmuth,  pro- 
ducing from  his  pocket  a  short  mecrschuum 
in  a  case. 

"That's  niy  way,"  said  Father  Magrath, 
with  a  sigh  of  appreciation.  "  Yo  do  right. 
Your  own  poipe,  and  your  own  silf,  that's  the 
true  smoker's  motto. 

"  It's  a  mighty  quaro  thing,  too,"  con- 
tinued Father  Magrath,  as  he  filled  his  pipe, 
"about  tills  same  fashun  of  sniokin;.',  and 
this  same  tobacco.  Have  ye  ivir  tl'onght 
where  it  origeciiatid  ?     Ye  know  the  popular 


thayory  that  it  canio  from  -\niericii.  Don't 
believe  n  word  of  it,  Columbus  did  enough 
for  'ho  wurruld,  but  it  wasn't  iiim  or  his  dis- 
covery that  gave  tDbnoeo  to  civooloezeotion. 

"  Yo  see,"  ho  continued,  "  tliere's  this  dif- 
fceculteo  staring  yo  in  the  face.  Ye've  got 
to  account  for  tho  uncversaleeteo  of  itc 
use.  One  (piurler  of  tlie  human  race  vise  to- 
bacco. How  has  it  ixtiiiiHcl  so  widc^ly  in  lisu 
lliiii  fowcr  cinturii'S?  If  Columbus  is  tho 
earliest  date  for  the  use  of  tobacco,  how  did 
it  piiiitrate  into  India  and  China  in  that 
toime?  Now,  my  tliayory  is  this:  ye  know 
Ciiina,  Ye  know  how  all  the  greit  iiivin- 
tioiis  and  discoveries  of  civeoleezretion  have 
been  traced  there;  paper,  printing,  pow- 
der, tlie  mariner's  compacts,  and  other  things. 
Now,  I  trace  toliiu'co  there.  It  wasn't  Amer- 
ica tliut  gave  tobacco  to  the  wurruld.  It  was 
China.  China  gave  tay.  China-gave  also  to- 
bacco. If  researches  are  made  into  Chinese 
history,  I  don't  doubt  that  it  will  be  found 
that  toliacco  ha!«  been  i.scd  there  for  thou- 
sands of  years  ;  that  Confucius  snii(lr<l  ;  Meii- 
cius  chewed;  that  Fo-hi  smoked;  and  that 
the  Tartar  nomads,  anil  the  IVrsians,  and  the 
Intlians,  received  their  knowledge  of  tho 
'  sublime  weed,'  as  Hyron  calls  it,  from  i'hina. 
And  I  don't  know  but  that  America  may  have 
rccci'od  it  from  Cliiiia  also,  for  if,  as  some 
suppose,  America  was  peopled  by  the  Mong(d 
race,  there  isn't  the  laste  doubt  in  life  but 
that  they  carried  their  poipes  with  thini. 

"  Now,  whin  ye  look  at  tobacco,"  con- 
tinued tho  priest,  in  an  animated  way,  "  ye 
see  three  grand  classeef(!ecections,  corrispond- 
ing  with  tho  three  grand  divisions  which  wo 
notice  in  moilem  civccleezcction.  First,  there 
isthoAsecatic;  it  isnianipiilecled,  anddnigged, 
anil  spoiccd,  and  made  into  a  luxurccoiis  ar- 
teeficial  substance  for  the  use  of  tlie  upper 
classes  of  socicetee.  It  rip<-isints  Art.  Then 
there  is  the  American,  which  comes  to  us  in 
its  purity.  This  riprisints  Nature.  Finally, 
wo  have  the  rlulV  made  here  in  the  varccoud 
countries  of  Kurope ;  giving  a  rivinue  io  tho 
governiiiints,  nnil  grinding  tho  face  if  tho 
poor.  Tills  riprisints  the  Ilrummngin  system 
of  manufactures,  which  is  swallowing  up  all 
Art,  and  all  Nature,  and  fhrifening  to  swal- 
low up  modern  civeeloczeetion  itsilf.  IJiil, 
mark  me,  tlior'l!  be  a  rayaction  among  the 
nations.  The  pe.oph?  will  no  longer  bo  op- 
prlscod.  (lovcrninints  will  no  longer  tread 
down  humancctee  in  tho  dust.     The  many 


I 


I 


I 


!l 


1 


»  » 


FATIIEIl  MAtlHATn. 


71 


will  at  Inst  force  their  wantx  upon  tlio  notice 
of  llio  few.  Tho  (InvH  of  tlio  privceU-pcd 
classes  are  wclliiiKh  indiil.  If  modem  civ. 
c('li'c/.i.'Ction  iiicnii!)  any  thing  it  incniis  llic 
rights  of  iimii.  Those  rights  man  will  have, 
rirst  among  them,  ho  will  insist  on  having 
free  tobaL'co;  ho  will  wrist  this  great  luxury 
of  tho  liumiin  race  from  the  grasp  of  tyranni- 
cal governmintH,  and  stand  u|)  in  all  the  dig- 
nity and  grandeur  of  manhood  to  Brnolie,  or 
to  chew,  or  to  do  any  thing  ilse  to  which  the 
great  heart  of  humanity  may  impil  him." 

Thus  far  Knne  Ilellmuth  had  listened  to 
the  priest  without  any  coramont.  Just  hero, 
however,  [lartly  because  Father  Mngrath 
happened  to  pause,  ond  partly  because  he 
was  surprised  at  this  cropping  out  of  revo- 
lutionary sentiments  from  one  who  belonged 
to  tho  most  conservative  class  of  mankind, 
he  said : 

"  You  talk  ns  though  you  had  embraced 
the  radical  gospel.  Is  radicalism  common 
with  tlie  priests  of  your  church  ?  " 

Father  Magrnth  looked  at  him  with  a  keen 
glance  for  a  few  moments, 

"  Oh,"  said  he  at  last,  "  this  is  only  talk. 
A  man's  banter  never  shows  his  real  sinti- 
inints.  For  my  part,  luy  life  and  my  thoughts 
arc  all  taken  up  with  a  work  in  which  mod- 
ern civeeleezection,  and  radicalism,  and  con- 
servatism, and  all  the  other  isms,  niver  inter. 
How  should  they?  I'm  nn  antoeriuarian.  I 
gave  up  all  my  time  to  the  most  zilous  antee- 
tpiarian  rascai'ches.  Most  of  my  life  I  live  at 
Komc.  There  I  come  into  immaydeeate  con- 
■(act  with  the  Holy  Father,  and  tho  whole 
College  of  Kyardeenals.  If  there's  any  one 
man  tliey  know,  that  man's  Father  Mfigrath. 
The  ixhumcotiona  I've  made,  and  tho  cxplo- 
reetioiis,  and  tho  discoveerics,  would  take  all 
night  to  tell.  ^Vhy,  it  was  only  tho  other 
day  I  found  at  Civita  Castellano,  in  an  owld 
Aytruacaii  tomb,  an  antique  unun,  and  I've 
got  it  here  now,  and  that  same  urrun  is  worth 
moro  thin  its  weight  in  solid  gold,  so  it  is. 
There's  people  that's  olferrcd  me  more  already, 
and  I  refused.  Mf.  a  radical !  I'd  like  to  see 
ineself  bothorin'  me  head  about  modem  poli- 
tics. Vut  mo  in  Florence  in  the  days  of 
Cosmo  do  Medici,  and  I'll  take  my  stand 
with  one  po-ty  or  the  other;  but  this  vulgar 
nineteenth  ciutury,  with  its  miserable  party 
Biiuabbles,  seems  like  child's  play  to  me. 

■'  The  worst  of  it  is,"  continued  Father 
Magrath  in  a  pensive  tone — "  tho  worst  of  it 


Is  the  lack  of  a  proper  spirit  at  Komc.  Why, 
here  I  am  ;  and  I've  been  urging  for  yearn 
upon  the  Itonian  (iovernment  a  conrsc  of 
action  that  might  have  given  them  untold 
wcahli.  First,  I've  \irged  the  ixhumeetion 
of  the  rahttine — the  it.ilaco  of  the  Cresars, 
tho  Aurea  jMmin  Aeronit,  Tho  trisures 
that  nuist  lie  buried  there  wouM  be  I'uough 
to  give  them  nieiins  for  earryiii;,'  out  tlje  bulil- 
est  designs  that  Antonelli  or  anybod)  else 
might  wish.  Secondly,  and  still  more  ear- 
nestly, I've  urged  upon  them  the  i)hin  of  di- 
verting the  Tiber  from  its  bed.  It  would 
cost  something,  it  is  true;  but  the  cost  would 
be  nothing  whin  compared  with  the  raysult. 
Why,  only  think  of  tho  trisures  that  lie 
buried  there — the  gold,  tho  silver,  tho  dia- 
monds, the  gims,  and  precious  stones  ;  tho 
statues,  the  carvings,  the  ornimlnis  innumer- 
able. Trisurc !  Why,  in  tho  bed  of  tho 
Tiber  is  enough  trisure  to  buy  up  all  Italy! 
And  yet  tho  I'apal  (iovernment  is  hard  up. 
And  why—?" 

Father  Magrath  patised  and  looked  ear- 
nestly for  a  few  moments  at  Kane  Ilcllnuith. 

"Why?"  he  resumed.  "I'll  tell  you 
why.  It's  because  they  want  an  Irish 
pope!" 

"An  Irish  pope!"  repeated  Kane  Ilell- 
muth, as  Father  Magrath  paused. 

"  Yis,"  said  Father  Magrath,  solemnly— 
"an  Irish  poj)c!  Home,  Italy,  riiristeiidom, 
all  need  an  Irish  pope.  The  Italians  cannot 
govern  Home,  or  the  Church,  in  the  nine- 
teenth cintury.  They  are  a  worn-out  race. 
It's  not  poverty  that  ails  thim.  It's  indo- 
lince,  inertia,  want  of  interproise,  cowardice, 
and  all  that,  (live  Christendom  on  Irish 
pope,  and  she'd  be  redeemed.  The  worruld 
would  wear  a  dilTirint  aspict  allogithcr,  tho 
day  after  tho  iliciion  of  a  born  I'addy  to  the 
chair  of  Paint  Payter  shoidd  be  made  known. 
Xo  country  but  Irelaiul,  no  race  but  the  Irish, 
could  furnish  the  riquisito  qmileefeeceetions. 
Ireland  has  tho  piety,  and  the  loyalty  to  the 
I{om.in  Catholic  faith,  and  at  tho  same  time 
it  has  the  spirit  of  iiulipindinco,  the  love  of 
freedom,  and  above  uU  the  rintliss,  bounding, 
invincible,  indel'atigable  inirgy,  that  makes 
this  ago  what  it  is.  What  is  now  the  Isyding 
nation  in  tho  wurruld  ?  America.  Who 
have  made  America  what  it  is  ?  Tho  Iri.sh 
people.  And,  therefore,  the  Irish  people, 
being  at  once  the  most  pious  and  the  most 
I  iiiirgitic  of  all  the  races  of  man,  are  the  ones 


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72 


AX  OI'EX   QUESTION. 


from  whom,  above  nil,  the  next  Pope  of  Rome 
should  be  ilicted  ! " 

Upon  this  Father  Magrath  at  length  suc- 
ceeded in  lighting  his  pipe,  an  attempt  in 
which  for  some  time  he  had  been  baffled  by 
his  own  eloquence,  and  then,  puffing  out 
heavy  volumes  of  smoke,  he  relapsed  for  a 
time  into  silence. 


CHAPTER  XVir. 

FAMILY      MATTERS. 

Father  MAcnATn  thus  succeeded  at  last 
in  lighting  his  pipe,  and  for  a  few  moments 
his  flow  of  ''onversation  was  cheeked.  lie 
Bat  holding  the  pipe  with  his  left  hand  to  his 
mouth,  while  his  right  hand  stirred  a  spoon 
round  the  tumbler  of  toddy.  Clouds  of  smoke 
rolled  up  around  his  head,  through  which  his 
eyes  occasionally  peered  forth  in  a  furtive 
way,  yet  with  a  quick,  keen,  penetrating 
glance  at  the  rugged  face  and  sombre  brow 
of  Kane  Hellmuth.  The  latter  su.veyed  the 
priest  calmly,  but  said  nothing.  He  had 
come  to  this  interview  out  of  no  desire  for 
society,  out  of  no  love  of  conversation,  and 
no  taste  for  that  conviviality  upon  which  his 
companion  laid  stress.  He  had  come  simply 
because  ho  hoped  that  he  might  be  able  to 
learn  something  directly  or  indirectly  about 
Clara,  his  late  wife ;  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  one  who  filled  the  responsible  post  of 
father-confessor  to  this  family  would  be  the 
very  man  who,  of  all  other;!,  would  be  the 
most  likely  to  give  him  that  information 
which  he  needed.  lie  listened,  therefore,  in 
silence  and  with  patience  to  the  priest's  re- 
marks, thinking  that  his  wandering  fancy 
would  soon  exhaust  itself,  and  his  mind  come 
to  bubiness  matters. 

"I  rigrit  cxtramely,"  said  Father  Magrath, 
at  length,  "  that  Miss  Mordaunt  isn't  at  home. 
But  she  couldn't  stay  here  any  longer.  The 
rayeint  sad  occurrince,  the  dith  of  her  viniri- 
ble  frind,  precd  daiply  upon  her  mind,  and 
she  has  been  compillcd  to  quit  the  city.  For 
me  own  part,  I  must  say  that,  although  I  was 
not  altogither  surprised  at  poor  Wyverne's 
dith,  I  filt  it  extramely." 

"Yes,"  said  Kane  Ilellmuth,  who,  now 
that  Father  Magrath  had  got  to  a-  topic  like 
this,  was  anxious  to  keep  him  to  it  and  to 
draw  him  out,  "  yes,  I  suppose  so,  but  it  was 


very  sudden,  and  I  did  not  know  tliat  ai  y 
one  could  be  expecting  it." 

Father  Magrath  sighed  and  shook  his 
head. 

"  I  was  acquainted  witli  the  doctor  who 
attended  him." 

"  The  doctor  that  altindid  him  ?  "  repeated 
Father  Magrath.  "  That'll  be  Dr.  Burke— no. 
Blade — no,  that's  not  it — it's  something  like 
it." 

"  Dr.  Blake." 

"  Blake — yis,  that's  the  name,  so  it  is.  A 
young  man — yis.  Miss  Mordaunt  infarrumed 
me  all  about  it,  and  she  mintioued  him  with 
much  rayspict." 

"  There  was  some  trouble  on  Mr.  Wyverne's 
mind  toward  the  last,"  suggested  Kane  Ilell- 
muth. "  The  doctor  said  that  Miss  Wyverne 
seemed  to  feel  uneasy.  I  hope  that  she  has 
overcome  that  feeling." 

"  Miss  Wyvcrne — what  ?  "  said  Father  Jla- 
grath.  "  What's  that  ?  Why,  ye  don't  mane 
that  wild  fancy  of  his  ?  Sure  and  did  ycr 
frind  the  doctor  let  her  go  off  with  such  a 
fool's  fancy  in  her  poor  little  head?  D'ye 
mane  hi.4  notion  about  not  knowing  her? 
Sure  and  it's  wild  he  was.  Didn't  I  hear  all 
about  it.  He  didn't  ricognize  his  own  choild. 
It  was  delirium,  lie  was  out  of  his  sinsis. 
Yer  frind  the  doctor  must  be  very  young  to 
take  the  language  of  faver  and  delirium  for 
sober  siuse.  I'm  afraid  he  hadn't  his  wits 
about  him  ;  but,  most  of  all,  I  blame  him  for 
not  explaining  to  her,  poor  girl.  Faith,  thin, 
there's  no  fear  that  she'll  be  troubled  about 
that.  She's  got  a  black  future  before  her, 
I'm  afraid." 

''I  sincerely  hope  that  no  new  affliction 
has  happened  to  Miss  Wyveriie." 

"  Well,  it's  ginerally  considered  an  afflic- 
tion," said  Father  Magrath,  "  to  be  lift  di?ti- 
choot." 

"Destitute?  Why,  wasn't  her  father  a 
very  rich  man? " 

Father  jiagrath  shook  his  head  with  sol- 
emn and  mournful  emphasis. 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  Miss  Wyverne  has  noth- 
ing. Her  father  had  nothing  to  layve  her. 
He  was  head  over  heels  in  dibt.  Under  tho 
show  of  great  apparent  wilth,  ho  concealed 
utter  poverty." 

"  You  amaze  me,"  said  Kane  Ilellmuth,  in 
a  sympathizing  tone. 

"  It  was  an  old  dibt,"  continued  Father 
Magrath,  "contracted  years  ago  —  he  nivcf 


/ 


i 


FAMILY   MATTERS. 


73 


father  a 
with  sol- 


■was  able  to  do  any  thing  witli  it.  lie  had  to 
kape  up  a  certain  style,  and  this,  of  coorse, 
necissitated  a  great  ixpiuditure ;  consequently 
he  wint  from  bad  to  worse.  One  man  was 
his  chief  creditor,  and  he  was  lenient  for  a 
long  time,  until  this  last  year  or  so,  whin  he 
changed  his  chune,  and  demanded  a  sittlc- 
inint  or  some  sort  of  security.  All  this  preyed 
greatly  upon  my  poor  frind's  mind,  and,  in 
conniction  with  the  life-long  anxieties  cf  his 
business,  resulted  in  some  affiction  of  the 
heart,  some  inflammeetion  of  the  pericarjum. 
And  here  now  ye  see  the  ind.  Here  he  is — a 
did  man — and  here  is  his  daughter  literally 
pinniliss.  AVIiat's  wust,  she  doesn't  know 
any  thing  about  it  yit,  and  I'm  bothered  out 
of  me  life  about  it,  for  it  is  my  milancholy 
juty  to  infarrum  her  of  these  facts,  but  how 
I'm  to  do  it  I  don't  for  the  life  of  me  know." 

Father  Magrath  was  silent  for  a  few  no- 
ment;!,  and  peusively  sipped  his  toddy. 

"  By-the-way,"  said  he,  at  length,  "this 
frind  of  yours,  the  doctor,  do  ye  know  where 
be  is?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  he's  in  Pari?." 

"  In  Paris  ?  Well,  that's  very  convay- 
nient.  I  find  that  it  is  nicissary  for  me  to 
obtain  some  sort  of  a  formal  stectment  from 
bis  medical  man,  if  possible,  rilitiv  to  the  dis- 
ease of  poor  Wyverne,  and  to  have  it  jewly 
attested  before  some  magistrate.  If  yer  fr'ud 
is  so  handy  as  that,  maybe  I  might  write  and 
he'd  forward  the  nicissary  documents.  Would 
ye  have  the  kindniss  to  give  me  his  address  ? 
and,  perhaps,  ye'd  better  write  it  out  in  this 
mimorandum-book." 

With  this  Father  Magrath  drew  a  merno- 
randum-book  and  a  pencil  from  his  poclset. 
Opening  the  former,  he  handed  it  to  Kane 
Ilellmuth.  The  latter  took  it,  and,  on  the 
page  indicated  by  the  priest,  ho  wrote  down 
the  address  of  Dr.  Blake  in  full.  Tiie  priest 
thanked  him,  and  restored  the  memorandum- 
Look  to  his  pocket. 

"Yis,"  ho  continuc('  in  a  soliloquizing 
tone,  "  it  was  very  sad  the  whole  affair,  poor 
Wyvernc's  life  and  his  dith.  His  money- 
troubles  killed  him  at  last.  He  was  always 
hard  up — his  wilth  all  show,  and  a  grasping 
criditor,  and  him  as  poor  as  a  rat,  with  noth- 
ing to  leave  his  daughter,  poor  girl." 

"What'U  become  of  Miss  Wyvcmo?" 
asked  Kane  Ilellmuth,  with  some  interest. 

Father  Magrath  smiled. 

"  Oh,  for  that  matter,  there's  no  danger. 


after  all.  It's  only  the  sinsc  of  indipindinco 
that  she'll  lose.  She  has  frinds  that  love  her 
far  too  dearly  to  see  her  suffer,  and  they'll 
know  how  to  keep  her  from  knowing  any 
thing  of  want." 

"  Was  Mr.  AVyvcrne  any  relation  to  Miss 
Mordaunt  ?  "  asked  Kane  Ilellmuth,  who  now 
felt  anxious  to  bring  the  conversation  nearer 
to  the  subject  of  his  thought. 

"A  distant  relation.  Mr,  Wyverne  was 
her  guardian." 

"  Slie  has  something,  I  suppose,  to  live 
upon?" 

"  Oil,  yes ;  she  is  sufficiently  well  pro- 
vided for  to  make  her  fol  jew  oontintmint. 
Her  wants  are  not  ixtravngant.  She  has  been 
brought  up  witli  very  simple  tastes,  and,  foi 
that  matter,  if  the  worst  eomcs  to  the  worst, 
she  could  be  a  governess.  It's  very  different 
with  her  from  what  it  is  with  Miss  Wyverne, 
that's  looked  on  hersilf  all  her  life  as  an 
heiress." 

"  Has  Miss  Mordaunt  any  brotlicrs  or 
sisters  ?  " 

"No,"  said  the  priest;  "she's  alone  in 
the  wurruld.  There  were  others,  but  tlwy'ro 
dead  and  gone.  She's  had  a  sad  lot  in  life — 
orphaned  in  her  infancy — alone  without  any 
rilitivcs  to  speak  of — but  she's  got  a  good, 
and  a  gintlc,  and  an  angilic  dispo;iition  of  her 
own." 

"  Had  she  no  sisters  ?  "  asked  Kane  Hell- 
muth,  in  a  voice  which  he  tried  to  make  as 
steady  as  possible,  but  in  which,  in  spite  of 
his  efforts,  there  was  a  perceptible  tremor. 
The  priest  took  a  hasty  glance  at  him,  and 
saw  that  his  head  was  bowod,  leaning  upon 
his  hand. 

"  She  had,"  said  the  priest,  after  a  short 
hesitation — "  she  had  a  sister." 

"  A  sister  ?  I  thought  so,"  said  Kane 
Hellmuth.    "  Was  she  older  or  younger  ?  " 

"  Older — tin  years  older." 

"  Do  you  know  her  name  ?  " 

"  Clara." 

With  every  new  word  the  agitation  ,.1" 
Kane  Ilellmuth  had  increased,  so  that  it 
would  have  been  perceptible  to  duller  eyes 
than  those  keen  and  scrutinizing  ones  of  Fa- 
ther Magrath,  which  were  fastened  so  vigi- 
lantly and  so  searchingly  upon  him. 

"  Bessie,"  said  the  priest,  in  a  mournful 
tone,  "  comes  from  nn  ill-fated  family.  I 
hope  she  may  be  an  ixciption  to  the  mourn- 
ful distinies  that  seem  to  purshoo  her  rili- 


74 


AX   OPEN   QUESTIOX. 


tivea.  There  was  the  mother,  died  in  the 
prime  of'licr  life;  there  was  the  father,  wint 
mad  with  sorrow,  and  took  himsiif  off  to  for- 
eign parts,  where  he  wint  and  died.  Thin, 
there  was  tliis  elder  sister.  Whin  Mr.  Mor- 
daunt  died,  Mr.  Wyverne  slipped  forward  and 
took  the  two  poor  orphans  under  his  own 
protiction.  Uo  didn't  take  thim  into  his  own 
house,  because  it  wasn't  convaynent,  owing  to 
family  difi'eeculties  of  his  own  with  his  wife ; 
but  he  put  the  two  orphans  in  good  hands,  as 
I  can  tistify.  He  was  as  good  as  a  father  to 
thim.  Uo  took  care  of  their  little  means, 
and,  for  that  matter,  ye  might  say  he  gave 
it  to  thim." 

"  What  became  of  tliis  elder  sister  ? " 
asked  Kane  llellmuth,  in  a  scarcely  audible 
voice. 

"It  was  a  very  sade  fate,  the  saddest  I 
iver  knew,"  said  the  priest.  "  Mr.  Wyvorne 
had  determined  to  give  her  the  beat  educa- 
tion possible,  and  sint  her  to  a  boarding- 
school  in  Paris." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Well,  it's  almost  too  sad  to  talk  about. 
Eemimber,  she  was  very  young  —  a  mere 
choild — not  over  sixteen,  and  that,  too,  in  a 
Frinch  school,  where  gyerruls  arc  so  secludid. 
Well,  it  happened  that  some  prowling  advin- 
turcr — some  unprincipled  and  fiendish  delu- 
dherin'  riptoile — managed  to  make  her  ac- 
quaintince.  Ye  know  the  iud  of  that.  There 
is  only  one  ind.  That  ind  was  hers.  Clara 
Mordauut  was  ruined  by  the  macheeneetioiis 
of  a  scoundril  that  I  hope  and  trust  is  ayvin 
new  gittin  his  jew  in  this  life  or  the  other." 

At  this,  Kane  IlcUmuth's  face  turned  to  a 
ghastly  pallor.  It  was  hard  indeed  for  him 
to  listen  to  this,  and  yet  say  nothing. 

"  I  have  heard  something  about  it,"  said 
he.  "  A  friend  of  mine  once  told  mo,  some 
years  ago,  but  he  said  they  were  married." 

"  Married  !  "  said  the  priest,  with  t,  sneer. 
"  There  were  no  pains  taken  to  lit  the  mar- 
riage be  known,  at  any  rate,  and  the  scandal 
about  her  was  as  bad  as  if  she  had  not  been. 
No,  depind  upon  it,  there  was  no  marriage. 
She  was  run  away  with.  It  was  the  old  story, 
and  it  came  to  the  same  ind." 

"  The  end  ?  what  was  the  end  ?  "  gasped 
Uellmuth. 

"  The  villain  deserted  her,    lul — " 

"Ho  did,  not!"  cried  llellmuth,  in  a  terri- 
ble voice,  starting  up  and  looking  at  the 
priest 


"  I  only  say  what  I've  heard,  and  what  the 
frinds  of  the  poor  gyerrul  have  heard  and 
have  believed,"  said  the  priest,  mildly.  "  Per- 
haps ye  know  more  about  it  than  I  do.  If 
ye  were  livin'  in  Paris  that  toime,  ye  might 
have  found  out,  and  in  that  case  ye  can  tell 
me." 

Kane  llellmuth  made  a  mighty  eflbrt,  and 
regained  his  self-control. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  he  ;  "  but  years  ago 
I  saw  the  man  that  you  speak  of.  lie  was  my 
friend.     lie  said  that  he  was  married." 

The  priest  shrugged  his  shoulders  in- 
credulously. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  he  said  so,"  he  remarked ; 
"  that's  what  they  always  say.  At  any  rate, 
there  is  the  fact  that  she  was  -irtually  be- 
trayed, deserted,  and  died  the  worst  of  deaths, 
brought  down  to  that  by  a  brokin  heart. 
What  matter  his  imply  protistations  about 
farrums  of  matremoney,  I  ask  ye,  in  the  face 
of  sich  a  catasthrophe  as  that  ?  " 

To  this  Kane  llellmuth  made  no  answer. 
He  came  to  get  information,  not  to  argue  or 
to  apologize.  He  knew  better  than  any  other 
what  was  the  actual  extent  of  the  guilt  of 
that  man  of  whom  the  priest  spoke  so  se- 
verely ;  but  he  had  no  heart  to  offer  an  apol- 
ogy. Was  not  the  deed  itscK  'ull  of  horror  ? 
had  it  not  crushed  his  life  down  into  the  dust 
of  never-ending  Belf-rcproach  ? 

"  Did  she  die  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  faint  voice, 
returning  to  the  subject. 

"  She  did,  and  by  the  worst  of  deaths. 
She  died — and — by  her  own  hand." 

The  priest  paused.  Kane  llellmuth  lis- 
tened breathlessly.  At  last  the  revelation 
was  coming. 

"  It  was  found  out  by  their  landlord,  who 
told  her  frinds  afterward  all  about  it.  Ac- 
cording to  his  story,  the  two  had  high  words 
togither  that  morning.  Toward  ayvenin'  he 
suspictid  something,  and  knocked  at  the  dure. 
There  was  no  answer,  which  made  him  break 
open  the  dure.  There  he  saw  a  sight  that 
filled  him  with  horror.  The  poor  gyerrul  lay 
did,  stone  did,  on  the  flure,  and  the  scoundril 
that  had  killed  her  was  in  some  drunken  fit 
on  a  sofa,  or  in  bed.  Uo  was  sint  off  to  his 
frinds  —  she  was  buried.  He  disappeared, 
and  I  hope  he's  did.  I  wouldn't  like  to  bo 
sittin'  near  that  man.  Priest  though  I  am, 
I  fonr  I  should  feel  a  murderous  inclination 
stealing  over  me.    I  wouldn't  have  any  con- 


fidince  in  mcsilf,  at  all  at  all — not  me.    Ye 


i 


FAMILY   MATTERS. 


75 


say  yc're  liis  fi-iiul.  (';in  ye  tell  me  what  bu- 
camo  of  liim  ?  " 

"  He's  dead,"  said  Kane  Ilellmuth,  in  a 
faint,  choking  voice. 

"  Dead  ?  Thin  1  hope  ho  killed  himsilf. 
That  was  the  best  thing  left  for  him  to  do  af- 
ter killins  that  poor  gyerrul." 

At  this  Kane  Ilellmuth  bowed  Jowa  his 
head,  and  buried  his  lace  in  his  hands.  Was 
there  any  thing  more  now  for  him  to  learn? 
Was  not  this  enough,  this  confident  declara- 
tion of  Father  Magrath  ?  Did  he  wish  any 
more  ?  Could  he  venture  to  go  into  details 
about  such  a  subject,  and  ask  the  particulars 
of  that  most  terrible  of  tragedies  from  a  man 
like  this,  who  uttered  words  that  pierced  like 
daggers  ?  That  were  too  hard  a  task.  The 
information  which  he  had  already  gained 
seemed  sufficient. 

"  Ilcr  frinds,''  continued  the  priest,  still 
pursuing  the  train  of  thought  which  had  been 
started,  "  buried  her,  and  strove  to  save  her 
name  from  stain  by  putting  the  name  of  tha 
man  on  the  stone,  just  as  if  ho  had  been  her 
husband.  And  so,  if  ye  iver  go  to  the  cime- 
tery  of  Pere-la-Chaise,  ye'll  see  on  that  stone, 
not  the  name  of  Clara  Mordaiint  but  Clara 
Riithven.  Kuthven,  ye  know,  is  the  name  of 
the  villain  that  killed  her." 

At  this  a  deep  groan  burst  from  Kane 
Ilellmuth. 

"Sure,  ye  don't  seem  well,"  'said  the 
priest,  in  a  tone  which  was  meant  to  express 
sympathy.  "  Won't  ye  take  some  more  whis- 
key? Try  it — noat.  Its  moighty  illictive, 
whin  taken  that  way,  for  dispilling  mintal 
deprission,  and  shuperinjewcing  a  contint- 
miut  and  placidity  of  moind." 

Iviine  Ilellmuth  shook  his  head. 

"  V7cli,"  said  the  priest,  "I'll  power  out  a 
thii-.-bleful  for  niesilf,  for  the  subject  is  a  dis- 
tris'-ing  one  intirely.  And  bo  yc  say,"  ho 
continued,  "  that  this  man  is  a  frind  of  yours, 
or  was  ?  Sure,  and  I'd  like  to  know,  thin,  is 
ho  alive  now  ?  ■' 

Kane  Ilellmuth  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"  He's  dead,"  said  he  again,  in  a  hollow 
voice. 

"Dead!  Oh,  yis.  So  ye  said  before. 
Whin  did  ho  die  ?  " 

"  Ten  years  ago,"  said  Kane  Ilellmuth. 

"Tin  years  ngo !  Why,  that  was  the 
eamo  toimc! " 

"He  died  when  she  died,"  said  Kane  Ilell- 
muth, in  the  same  tone. 


"  Sure,  and  I  nivir  hoard  a  word  of  that 
afore.  And  what  was  it  that  ho  died  of? 
Mill,  like  that,  don't  often  die  off  so  aisy. 
They  live  long,  whin  their  betters  die ;  and 
that's  the  way  of  the  wurruld.  What  was  it 
that  he  died  of,  thin  ?  " 

"He  killed  himscll',"  said  Kane  Hullmuth, 
in  harsh,  discordant  tones,  that  seemed  wrung 
out  of  hiin. 

"Killed  himself!"  repeated  the  priest. 
"  Well,  it's  well  he  did  ;  for,  if  that  man  wero 
alive  now  at  this  moraert,  it  would  be  enough 
to  make  poor  Clara  rise  from  her  grave." 

These  last  words  were  too  much.  Thus 
f\ir  this  priest  had  shown  an  astonishing  capa- 
city for  saying  things  that  cut  his  conipauiou  to 
the  very  soul,  and  saying  them,  too,  in  a  cas- 
ual, offhand,  unconscious  way,  as  if  they  were 
elicited  by  the  subject  of  their  conversation. 
It  had  been  hard  for  Kane  Ilellmuth  to  en- 
dure it  thus  far,  but  he  could  endure  it  no 
longer.  These  last  words  summed  up  briefly 
the  whole  horror  of  his  present  situation,  to 
avert  which,  or  to  escape  from  which,  he  had 
made  this  journey. 

IL  started  to  his  feet.  He  did  not  look  at 
the  priest. 

"  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  he,  "  for 
the  information  which  you  have  given." 

At  this  t!ie  priest  stared  at  him  in  aston- 
i.-hnient,  which,  if  not  real,  was  certainly  well 
feigned. 

"  What's  this  ?  "  he  said,  "  what's  this  ? 
Why,  man !  What  d'ye  mane  ?  Ye  can't  bo 
going!  And  the  ayvenin'  not  fairly  be- 
gun." 

"  I  must  go  now,"  said  Kane  Ilellmuth, 
abruptly,  in  a  hoarse  voice.  "My — my  time 
is  limited."  Uo  stood  swaying  backward  and 
forward,  his  face  ghastly,  liis  eyes  glazed, 
and  staring  wildly  at  vacancy.  He  did  not 
see  the  keen  glance  of  the  priest  as  he  ear- 
nestly regarded  him. 

Kane  Ilellmuth  staggered  toward  the 
door.     The  priest  followed. 

"  Sure,"  said  he,  "  it's  sick  ye  are.  And 
ye  won't  take  another  glass  ?  Perhaps,  ye'd 
like  cognac.  In  the  name  of  wonder,  what's 
come  over  ye,  man  ?  Take  some  cognac,  or 
ye'll  niver  get  home.  Sure,  and  I'll  nivct 
let  yc  go  this  way.  Wait,  and  get  some  co- 
gnae.     Faith,  a!id  ye  must  wait,  thin." 

Saying  this,  the  priest  laid  his  hand  on 
Kane  Hcllmuth's  arm,  and  drew  Iiira  back. 
Kane  Ilellmuth  stood  with  a  dazed  'ook  in 


1^ 


Ml 


m 


76 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


Lis  eyes,  and  an  expression  of  anguish  on  liis 
face.  Tbo  priest  liunied  to  tlio  sideboard, 
and,  pouring  out  a  tumbler  nearly  full  of  co- 
gnac, offered  it  to  his  companion,  who  took 
it  eagerly  and  gulped  it  down.  The  fiery 
draught  seemed  to  bring  him  back  to  himself, 
out  of  that  temporary  state  of  semivinoon- 
Bciousness  into  which  ho  had  far.<^n.  His 
eyes  fell  upon  the  priest,  and  the  wild  light 
faded  out  of  them. 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  said  he,  in  a  perfectly 
cool  and  courteous  manner,  which  offered  a 
striking  contrast  to  the  tone  of  his  voice  but 
a  minute  before.  "  I  am  subject  to  spasms 
of  the  heart,  and  Pra  afraid  Pve  caused  you 
some  alarm.  But  they  do  not  last  long,  and 
your  kind  and  prompt  assistance  has  helped 
inc." 

"  Won't  ye  sit  down  again,  thin?  "said  the 
priest,  earnestly,  "  and  finish  the  ayvenin'  ?  " 

"You're  very  kind,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth, 
*'  but,  after  this  attack,  I  might  have  another, 
and,  under  the  circumstances,  I  think  I  had 
better  go." 

"Won't  ye  stay  and  rest,  thin,  till  ye  feel 
stronger  ?  "  persisted  the  priest. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  "but 
I  require  the  open  air  just  now.  A  walk  of  a 
mile  or  so  is  the  best  thing  for  me.  I  shall, 
therefore,  bid  you  good-by,  with  many  thanks 
for  your  courtesy." 

Saying  this,  he  held  out  his  hand.  The 
priest  took  it  and  shook  it  heartily. 

"I  won't  say  good-by,"  said  the  priest. 
"  We'll  meet  again,  I  hope.  So  I'll  sny  au 
revoir." 

"Au  revoir,'^  said  Kane  Hellmuth,  cour- 
teously, falling  in  with  the  priest's  mood. 

They  thus  shook  hands,  and  Kane  Hell- 
muth departed. 

The  priest  accompanied  him  to  the  door. 
Ue  then  returned  to  the  room.  He  poured 
out  a  fresh  glass  of  toddy,  lighted  a  fresh 
pipe,  and  then,  flinging  himself  into  an  arm- 
chair, sat  meditating,  smoking,  and  sipping 
toddy,  far  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MORDAUNT     MANOR. 

Several  miles  away  from  Keswick,  Cum- 
berland, lay  some  extensive  estates,  Eurround- 
ing  a  first-class  country-house,  known  as  Mor- 


daunt  Manor.  About  a  fortnight  after  tho 
departure  of  Inez  for  the  Continent,  a  solitary 
horseman  stopped  at  the  gates  of  Mordaunt 
Manor,  and  was  a'"mitted  by  the  porter. 

A  broad  avenue  lay  before  him,  winding 
onward  amid  groves  and  meadows,  lined  on 
each  side  by  majestic  trees,  among  which 
clouds  of  rooks  were  fluttering  and  scream- 
ing. Riding  along  this  avenue  for  about  a 
mile,  he  at  length  came  in  sight  of  the  manor- 
house.  It  was  a  stately  edifice,  in  a  style 
which  spoke  of  the  days  of  the  Restoration 
and  Queen  Anne — one  of  those  massive  and 
heavy  houses  which  might  have  been  built  by 
a  disciple  of  Vanbrugh,  or  Vanbrugh  him- 
self— a  false  classicism  cmploj-ed  for  domestic 
purposes,  and  tlicrefore  thoroughly  out  of 
place,  yet,  on  the  whole,  undeniably  grand. 
There  were  gardens  around,  which  still  had 
that  artificial  French  character  that  was  loved 
by  those  wlio  reared  this  edifice.  There  was 
any  quantity  of  box-wood  vases,  and  plants 
cut  to  resemble  animals,  and  a  complete  popu- 
lation of  nymphs  and  Olympian  gods. 

The  horseman  uismoar^ted,  at  length,  and, 
throwing  iho  bridle  to  one  of  the  servants, 
ascended  tho  steps  and  entered  the  house. 
He  gave  his  name  as  Sir  Gwyn  Ruthven. 

Sir  Gwyn  Ruthven  seemed  to  be  an  aver- 
age young  man  of  the  period.  Ue  was  under 
twenty-five  years  of  ago,  of  medium  height, 
with  regular  features,  brown  hair  cut  short 
and  parted  in  the  middle,  side-whiskers  not 
extravagantly  long,  bright,  animated  eyes, 
and  genial  smile.  An  eye-glass  dangled  from 
his  button-hole,  and  a  general  air  of  easy 
self-possession  pervaded  him. 

Two  ladies  were  in  the  drawing-room  as 
he  entered.  One  of  these  was  an  elderly 
personage,  with  a  face  full  of  placidity,  self- 
content,  and  torpid  good-nature.  The  other 
was  a  young  lady,  whose  vivid  blue  eyes, 
golden  hair  all  flowing  in  innumerable  crimps 
and  frizzles,  retrousse  :iose,  perpetual  smile, 
and  animated  expression,  could  belong  to  no 
other  person  in  the  world  than  Bessie  Mor- 
daunt. 

Bessie  had  already  risen,  and  greeted  the 
new-comer  with  the  cordial  air  of  an  old  ac- 
quaintance. She  then  introduced  her  com- 
panion, who  seemed  to  act  in  the  general 
capacity  of  duenna,  guardian,  chaperon, 
guide,  philosopher,  and  friend. 

"  Let  mo  make  you  acquainted  with  my 
dearest  auntie — Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin." 


igUt  after  tho 
.eut,  a  solitary 
I  of  Mordaunt 
;  porter. 

him,  winding 
lows,  lined  on 
among  which 
;  and  seream- 
3  for  about  a 

of  the  manor- 
;e,  in  a  style 
e  Restoration 

massive  and 

been  built  by 
mbrugh  him- 
d  fordcuestic 
ighly  out  of 
jniably  grand, 
lich  still  had 
that  was  loved 
3.  There  was 
s,  and  plants 
ompletc  popu- 

gods. 
it  length,  and, 

the  servants, 
!d  the  house. 
Ruthven. 
0  be  an  aver- 
He  was  under 
2dium  height, 
air  cut  short 
:-whisker8  not 
limated  eyes, 
dangled  from 
.1  air  of  easy 


* 


wing-room  as 
IS  an  elderly 
placidity,  self- 
e.  The  other 
id  blue  eyes, 
erable  crimps 
■petual  smile, 
,  belong  to  no 
Bessie  Mor- 

I  greeted  the 
)f  an  old  ac- 
3ed  her  com- 
the  general 
D,    chaperon, 


tited  with  my 
■in." 


i 


■i'i 


« 


11 
I 


s 

o 


5I0RDAUXT  MANOR. 


;7 


"  I  could  scarcely  believe  what  I  licard," 
Bald  Sir  Gwyn.  "  I  had  no  idea  that  the  Mi93 
Mordaunt  of  Mordaunt  Manor  was  you  ;  but, 
from  what  they  told  me,  I  saw  it  must  bo. 
Even  then  I  could  hardly  believe  that  I  should 
be  so  fortunate  as  to  have  you  for  so  near  a 
neighbor ;  and  so,  you  sec,  I've  dropped  cere- 
mony, ond  come  at  once,  without  giving  you 
time  to  res  after  the  fatigues  of  your  jour- 
ney. 15ut,  'pon  my  life,  Miss  Mordaunt,  I 
couldn't  help  it ;  and  it's  awfully  good  in  you, 
you  know,  to  see  me." 

To  this  Bessie  listened  with  Jier  archest 
look  and  merriest  smile.  It  was  evident  that 
they  were  very  good  friends,  and  that  the 
pleasure  which  Sir  Gwyn  so  plainly  expressed 
was  not  disagreeable  to  her. 

"  Sure,"  said  she,  "  a  month  ago  this  day 
I  liadn't  the  least  idea  I'd  be  here  now  ;  and 
I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it  at  all,  at  all. 
But  it  was  so  very,  very  sad  about  poor,  dear 
Mr.  'Wyvcrne !  It  almost  makes  me  cry. 
But,  then,  you  know,  it's  such  a  comfort  to 
be  with  my  dearest  auntie  again  ! " 

Sir  Gwyn  looked  at  her  admiringly. 

"You  vanished  nut  of  London  so  sud- 
denly, you  know,"  said  he,  "  that  I  began  to 
think  I  should  never  see  you  again.  And  Mr. 
Wyverne — ah  ! — yes — very  sad — to  be  sure 
— as  you  say.  I  suppose,  however,  he  was 
no  relative — " 

Bessie  sighed. 

"  No,  not  a  relative,"  said  she  ;  "  but  then, 
you  know,  he  was  always  so  awfully  kind  to 
me,  and  he  was  my  dear  old  guardy,  and, 
really,  I  loved  him  almost  like — like — an — 
an  uncle,  you  know  ;  and  it's  myself  that  was 
fairly  heart-broken — when — when  I  lost  him." 

Another  sigh  followed.  It  was  a  mourn- 
ful theme,  and  Sir  Gwyn's  face  was  full  of 
sympathy  for  this  lovely  mournar. 

" How  is  Miss  Wyverne? "  he  asked,  gen- 
tly. 

Bessie  sighed,  and  shook  her  pretty  little 
hc&d. 

"  She  feels  it  very,  very  deeply,"  said  she, 
"  of  course — she  is  such  a  very  affectionate 
nature — and  it  was  all  so  awfully  sudden,  you 
know !  I  was  so  anxious  for  her  to  come  hero 
with  me — poor  darling  1 — but  I  couldn't  get 
her  to  do  so.  And  it's  fairly  dead  with  grief 
she  is  this  day.  I  told  her  how  I  sympathized 
with  her,  but  it  w.as  no  use.  Oh,  yes,  Sir 
Gwyn !  it's  myself  that  knows  what  it  is  to 
lose  a  papa,  and  a  dear  mamma,  too,  by  the 


same  token;  for  I've  been  through  it  all,  and 
it's  awfully  sad.    It  almost  makes  me  cry." 

At  this  Sir  Gwyn  looked  deeply  distressed, 
and  tried  to  change  the  conversation. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  ho,  "  Miss  Mordaunt, 
you  have  not  boon  here  for  a  long  time  ?  " 

"Xo,"  said  Bessie,  "not  since  I  was  a 
child.  It's  perfectly  strange  to  mo.  I  don't 
remember  one  single  thing  about  it.  But  I 
was  so  very,  very  young,  you  know — a  child 
in  arms,  positively !  So,  of  course,  I  remem- 
ber nothing.  I  was  taken  away  to  France, 
you  know." 

"  To  France  ? "  repeated  Sir  Gwyn,  in  some 
surprise. 

lie  knew  nothing  about  the  history  of 
Bessie's  life,  and  was  quite  eager  to  get  her 
to  tell  something  about  a  subject  which  was 
evidently  so  deeply  interesting  to  him. 

"Yes,"  said  Bessie;  "and  so,  as  I  was 
taken  away  so  early,  I  reoUy  know  nothing 
whatever  about  Mordaunt  Alanor,  though  it 
is  my  own  sweet  home.  My  dearest  auntie 
knows  all  about  it,  and  many's  the  time  she's 
took  up  whole  days  telling  me  about  my  an- 
cestor?." 

At  this  Sir  Gwyn  regarded  Mrs.  Hicks 
Lugrin  with  a  bland  and  benevolent  smile,  as 
thougli  her  close  connection  with  Bessie  was 
of  itself  enough  to  give  her  interest  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  know,  then,"  said  he, 
with  a  smile,  "  that  I  am  your  nearest  neigh- 
bor. I  should  have  told  you  that  in  London, 
if  I  had  only  known  it." 

"  Oh,  auntie  told  me,"  said  Bessie. 

"  I  hope,"  said  Sir  Gwyn,  "  that  Mordaunt 
Manor  won't  be  any  the  less  pleasant  to  you 
on  that  account." 

"  Well,"  said  Bessie,  with  a  droll  emilo, 
"there's  no  knowing.  You  may  be  after 
finding  me  a  disagreeable  neighbor,  and,  be- 
fore we  know  it,  we  may  be  engaged  in  litiga- 
tion with  each  other.  And  I  never  knew  till 
yesterday,  and  I  think  it's  the  awfuUest,  fun- 
niest thing ! " 

"  It's  a  remarkable  coincidence,"  said  Mrs. 
Hicks  Lugrin,  suddenly,  after  a  period  of  deep 
thought,  "  and  one,  my  dear  Bessie,  which,  I 
may  say,  is  as  pleasant  as  it  is  remarkable." 

There  was  some  degree  of  abruptness  in 
this  speech,  and  in  the  tone  of  Mrs.  Hicks 
Lugrin  there  was  something  that  was  a  little 
stiff  and  "  school-ma'iimish,"  but  Sir  Gwyn 
was  too  amiable  to  criticise  the  tone  of  a 


i 


I!  I 


h 


78 


AX  OPEN    QUESTION'. 


kindly  iciuaik,  and  was  too  wuU  pleased  to 
think  of  Buch  a  thing.  IIo  looked  more  bc- 
nignantly  than  ever  at  lira.  Uitks  Liigrin, 
and  a  thought  came  to  him  that  bhe  was  a 
very  admirable  sort  of  woman. 

"Oh,  thanks,"  ho  laughed,  "bat  really 
when  you  como  to  talk  of  pleasure  about 
this  discovery,  I  am  dumb.  I'lortsurc  isn't 
the  word.  1  assure  you  llulhvcn  Toners  will 
know  a  great  deal  more  of  me  now  than  it 
has  thus  far.  I've  been  deserting  it  too 
much.  It's  a  pity,  too ;  for  it  is  one  of  the 
finest  places  in  the  country.  Perhaps  some 
day  I  may  hope  to  have  the  honor  of  showing 
it  to  you  and  your — your  amiable  aunt.  I'm 
awfully  sorry  that  I  have  no  one  there  to  do 
the  honors,  but  you  know  I'm  alone  in  the 
world,  like  yourself.  Miss  Jlordaunt." 

Saying  this.  Sir  Gwyn  looked  at  her  wilh 
very  much  tenderness  of  expression  and  a 
world  of  eloquent  Buggcativcness  iu  his 
eye. 

"  IIow  very,  very  funny — that  is,  sad  I  " 
said  Uossio,  hastily  correcting  herself. 

"  That,"  remarked  Mrs.  Hicks  Lugriii, 
with  her  usual  abruptness,  "  is  a  circumstance 
which  can  easily  be  remedied." 

This  remark  conveyed  a  meaning  to  Sir 
Gwyn  whicl),  though  not  in  very  good  taste, 
was  nevertheless  so  very  agreeable  to  him 
that  his  face  flushed  with  delight,  and  he 
thought  more  highly  of  lifrs.  Hicks  Lugiin 
than  ever.  I?ut  Bessie  did  not  seem  to  ap- 
prehend its  implied  meaning  in  the  slightest 
degree. 

"  Ruthven  Towers,"  slio  said ;  "  what  a 
perfectly  lovely  name — so  romantic,  you  know 
— and  I  do  hope.  Sir  Gwyn,  that  it  is  a  dear 
old  romantic  ruin,  I'm  so  awfully  fond  of 
ruins !  " 

"  No,"  said  Sir  Gwyn.  "  I'm  very  sorry, 
but,  unfortunately,  it's  iu  excellent  preserva- 
tion." 

"  IIow  very,  very  sad  1 "  said  Bessie.  "  I 
do  so  dote  on  old  ruins  !  " 

At  this  Sir  Gwyn  looked  pained.  For  the 
moment  he  actually  regretted  that  his  grand 
old  home  was  not  a  heap  of  ruins,  so  that  he 
might  have  the  happiness  of  gratifying  the 
romantic  enthusiasm  of  this  lovely  girl. 

"  Ruins,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin, 
"  may  be  very  congenif.l  to  the  artistic  taste, 
but,  for  a  young  man  that  has  life  before  him. 
there  is  nothing  so  wholesome  as  a  whole 
Louse  over  his  head." 


This  remark  Sir  Gwyn  entirely  approved 
of,  and  acknowledged  it  by  another  of  his  be- 
nignant smiles. 

The  conversation  now  wandered  off  to 
other  things.  Sir  Gwyn  and  Bcssio  had 
much  to  say  about  the  last  London  season. 
Ho  had  met  her  then,  and  had  seen  her  sev- 
eral times,  during  which  interviews  he  had 
gained  a  friendly  footing,  and  had  begun  to 
manifest  for  her  an  interest  very  much  deeper 
than  usual,  which  Bessie  could  not  liave  been 
altogether  ignorant  of.  Upon  the  present  oc- 
casion he  was  evidently  most  eager  to  avail 
himself  of  all  the  advantages  wliicli  grew  out 
of  this  former  acquaintance ;  combined  with 
the  additional  advantages  of  his  position  in 
the  county,  and  his  close  neighborhood  to 
her,  it  gave  him  occasion  to  offer  her  many 
little  services.  He  knew  all  about  Jlordaunt, 
and  could  tell  her  all  about  it.  He  could 
also  show  her  Ruthven  Towers.  These  were 
the  things  that  first  occurred  to  him  as  being 
at  once  most  desirable,  most  pleasant,  and 
most  natural,  under  the  cireumstaiiecs. 

Bessie's  chaperon  seemed  to  bo  pleased 
with  Sir  Gwyn's  polite  attentions,  but  Bessie 
herself  was  very  non-committal.  She  spoke 
of  the  necessity  of  seclusion,  and  alluded  to 
the  death  of  her  guardian  as  something  which 
she  ought  to  observe  in  some  way  commen- 
surate with  her  own  grief.  Sir  Gwyn,  upon 
this,  was  too  delicate  to  press  the  matter,  and 
postponed  it  until  another  time. 

"  English  country -life,"'  said  Bessie,  in 
the  course  of  these  remarks,  "is  a  strange 
tldng  to  1-10  entirely.  I've  never  seen  any 
thing  of  it,  at  all,  at  all ;  and  really  it  will  be 
quite  a  new  world  to  the  likes  of  me.  I  was 
so  young  when  I  was  taken  to  France,  you 
know.  Sir  Gwyn,  and  all  that  I  know  of  Eng- 
lish country-lite  is  what  I  have  heard  from 
dear  auntie — isn't  it,  auntie,  dearest  ?  " 

"  Your  observations  are  entirely  correct," 
said  Mrs.  Ilieks  Lugrin. 

"  Then  let  me  hope,''  said  Sir  Gwyn,  po- 
litely, "  that  you  will  find  it  as  pleasant  as 
London  life." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  I  found  London  life  per- 
fectly charming,"  said  Bessie,  with  enthu- 
siasm. "And  you  know  I  had  just  come 
from  France,  and  you  may  imagine  what  a 
change  it  was." 

"  You  must  have  lived  tliere  all  your  life." 

"Yes,"  said  Bessie.  "It  was  at  St.- 
Malo.  Have  you  ever  been  there.  Sir  Gwyn?" 


!  i 


MORDAUXT  MANOR. 


79 


pur  life." 

at    St.. 

Gwvn?" 


"  No,  neviir." 

"  Oh,  it's  such  a  yicrfecUy  charmiug 
place,"  Hiiid  Bes.sic,  "  iuul  it's  more  like  iiiy 
Lome  tluin  any  other  phico.  It's  so  lovely. 
And  I  was  tiikeu  tlicre  when  I  was— oh,  only 
tlio  little.-it  luito  of  a  little  thing,  and  lived 
there  till  only  a  year  ago.  Sir  Gwyn,  and  sure 
it  was  myself  lliat  had  the  sore  heart  when 
poor,  dear,  darling  guardy  came  to  take  me 
away,  so  it  was." 

"  I'm  sure  it  mu.^t  have  been,"  saitl  Sir 
Gwyn,  in  tones  full  of  tendcrest  sympathy. 

"  I'm  sure  it  was  awfully  .sad  to  lo.so  my 
papa  and  mamma,"  said  IJessio,  mournfully, 
"  but  to  lose  my  home  seemed  w  orse,  so  it 
did  ;  and  that's  why  I  feel  so  awfully  sorry 
about  my  poor,  darling  Iny.  Not  but  tliat 
she  ho.s  a  home — but  then  it  doesn't  seem  like 
it  at  all,  nt  all." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Sir  Gwyn. 

"And  it's  worse  for  poor,  dear,  darling 
Iny  than  it  is  for  me,"  continued  Bessie, 
"  for  you  know  .she  lias  no  one,  and  I  have 
my  other  dear  gnardy,  my  poor  mamma's 
dear  papa,  you  know.  Sir  Gwyn.  And  he's 
the  very  nicest  person  I   You  can't  imagine  !  " 

Sir  Gwyn  looked  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
imagine,  but  was  unable. 

"  You  know  her,  my  own  dear,  darling 
Iny — do  you  not.  Sir  Gwyn '?  " 

"  Iny  '!     You  mean  Miss  Wyvcrne  ?  " 

"  Yes — Inez  her  name  is — the  same  name 
as  mine,  you  know,"  continued  Bessie,  gently 
and  sadly. 

"  The  same  as  yours  ! "  exclaimed  Sir 
Gwyn.  "  Why,  I  thought  that  yours  was 
Elizabeth  ?  I  remember  Miss  Wyverne,  of 
course,  and  she  always  called  you  Bessie." 

As  Sir  Gwyn  uttered  this  name  there  was 
an  indescribable  tenderness  in  the  tone  of 
his  voice  which,  did  not  by  any  means  escape 
the  notice  of  Miss  Bessie,  but  she  gave  no 
sign  to  that  efl'ect.  She  merely  went  on,  iu  a 
calm  way : 

"Oh,  yes;  she  always  insisted  on  calling 
me  Bessie.  Slie  said  it  was  awkward  for 
both  of  us  to  be  Iny.  .My  name,  you  know, 
is  Inez  Elizabeth — Inez  Elizabeth  Mordaunt." 

"  I  think  Inez  is  a  perfectly  beautiful 
n.ame,"  said  Sir  Gwyn,  cnthusiaslically. 

"So  do  I,  surely,"  said  Bessie;  "it  is  so 
entirely.  In  I'ranee  they  all  called  me  Inez, 
but  dear,  darling  Iny  set  the  fashion  of  call- 
ing mo  Bessie;  ami,  after  all,  it  would  have 
been   awkward   to   have   two   in   the  house 


named  Inez,  and  so  it  was  nulhing  else  but 
Bessie,  Miss  Bessie,  and  so  I  grew  to 
love  that  name,  because  I  loved  so  the  dear, 
darling  friends  who  called  me  by  it.  Still,  I 
think  Inez  is  awfully  lov.'ly,  and  it's  uncom- 
mon and  ronnintic.  Bear,  darling  Iny  and  I 
arc  second  cousins,  and  Inez  is  a  family 
name,  you  know,  so  wc  both  ha<l  it." 

All  this  was  news  to  Sir  (iwyn,  of  course, 
who,  as  he  said,  had  heard  her  called  "  Bes- 
sie," and  had  always  thought  of  her  mider 
that  name.  Still,  "Inez"  was  undeniably  a 
beautiful  name,  and  Miss  Mordaunt  was  no 
less  lovely  under  thi.s  sweet  foreign  name 
than  she  had  been  under  the  plainer  one  of 
"  Bessie."  He  lamented  that  he  was  not  at 
liberty  to  make  uso  of  either  one  of  theso 
names  and  call  her  by  it.  The  time  for  that, 
however,  had  hardly  come  as  yet,  and  he 
could  only  indulge  in  the  hope  that  it  ndght 
come  before  very  long. 

This  preference  which  Bessie  expressed 
for  tlio  name  "  Inez,"  was  also  sanctioned 
and  solemnly  confirmed  by  Jlrs.  Hicks  Lu- 
grin,  who  said,  iu  her  characteristic  manner: 

"  Jly  dear,  your  preference  is  every  way 
justifiable,  and  you  should  insist  now  on  all 
your  friends  calling  you  by  the  name  for 
which  you  yourself  have  so  decided  a  prefer- 
ence." 

When  Sir  Gwyn  at  length  took  his  de- 
parture, it  was  in  a  state  of  mind  that  may 
be  described  as  made  up  of  exultation,  expec- 
tation, anticipation,  elevation,  and  all  other 
"  alions  "  which  go  to  set  forth  the  state  of 
mind  which  humanity  experiences  under  the 
stimulus  of  Love's  young  dream.  Already, 
in  that  London  season  above  referred  to,  he 
had  been  smitten  with  Bessie's  charms ;  and, 
though  her  absence  had  weakened  this  efl'ect 
to  some  extent,  yet  now  the  sight  of  her  face 
more  than  revived  these  old  feelings.  The 
circumstances  under  which  he  now  saw  her 
tended  to  deepen  this  effect.  She  was  in  a 
quasi  state  of  mourning.  She  announced 
that  she  intended  to  keep  herself  secluded, 
for  a  time  at  least,  and  avoid  the  gayeties  of 
society.  Her  "mourning"  was  thus  deep 
enough  to  keep  her  restricted  within  the  very 
sphere  where  she  would  be  most  accessible 
to  him.  Ilcr  face  now  seemed  to  him  more 
piquant  than  ever ;  the  perpetual  smile 
which  Nature  had  stamped  upon  her  lips  did 
not  readily  adapt  itself  to  a  sombre  ex- 
pression of  grief ;  and  thus  Bessie's  attempta 


IP 


i 

I 


I 


80 


AN   OI'EN   QUESTION'. 


to  look  bereaved  and  afflicted  wcro  only  suc- 
cossl'ul  iu  so  fur  as  they  served  to  call  up  to 
lier  I'lice  a  new  expression,  and  one,  too,  of  a 
very  attnictive  kind.  The  cireunistanccs  that 
had  tlui3  brought  her  hero  and  given  iiim 
Huch  access  to  her,  could  not  bo  regarded  by 
him  witli  any  otiicr  feelings  than  those  of  the 
deepest  satisfaction  ;  and  ho  determined  to 
avail  himself  to  the  very  utmost  of  the  rare 
privileges  wliich  cliimcc  had  accorded  to 
bim. 

And  so  Sir  f!\vyn,  on  the  very  next  day, 
found  a  pretext  for  riding  over  to  Monlaunt 
Manor,     lie  found  Itessio  as  cordial  as  ever. 

She  received  liim  with  a  smile,  that  bo- 
witched  him,  and  witli  a  simple,  frank  friend- 
liness that  was  most  touehsig.  K!ie  told  him 
it  was  "  awfully  kind  "  in  him  to  con;o  to  sec 
her  again  when  elio  was  so  lonely.  She  re- 
marked that  Mordatnit  Manor  was  "anfully 
stupid,"  with  other  tilings  of  the  same  kind. 
Mrs.  Hicks  Lnjirin  also  ehimcc'  in  witii  simi- 
lar sentiiiients.  On  this  visit  Sir  Own  ven- 
tured to  hint  at  a  drive  through  tlie  country. 
Mrs.  Ilicks  Lugrin  thought  that  it  would  bene- 
fit Bessie's  health,  and  that  a  eompanion  like 
Sir  Gwyn,  who  knew  all  the  history  of  the 
county,  would  be  a  benefit  to  the  minds  of 
both  of  tliem. 

The  drive  was  very  successful,  and  was 
repeated.  In  a  few  days  Ilessie  went  out 
riding  with  Sir  Gwjn,  first  confining  herself 
to  the  park,  and  afterward  going  into  the 
outer  world.  Then  it  began  to  be  interrupted, 
for  the  great  world  was  in  motion,  and  every- 
body wlio  pretended  to  be  anybody  was  hur- 
rying to  Mordaunt  Manor  to  welcome  its  lovely 
young  mistress  to  her  ancestral  home  and  to 
her  native  county. 


CnAPTER  XIX. 

THE     LOST     ONE     FOUNO. 

From  what  has  been  related  it  will  be  seen 
that  Miss  Bessie  had  experienced  a  great 
change  in  her  life,  having  tlins  suddenly  ad- 
vanced from  the  position  of  certainly  not 
much  more  than  ward  to  the  conspicuous  ele- 
vation which  was  given  by  becoming  mis- 
tress of  Mordaunt  Manor.  Nor  in  coming  to 
what  she  called  her  ancestral  home  did  she 
find  any  lack  of  any  thing  which  she  might 
have  conceived  of  as  necessary  to  the  gran- 


deur of  her  position.  Tliere  was  the  Ilall  it- 
self, and  the  broad  estate,  ami  every  thing 
corrc'spondcd,  without  and  within.  Troops 
of  servants  stood  ready  to  do  the  slightest 
bidding  of  their  young  mistress ;  men-ser- 
vants  and  niaid-servants,  footmen,  grooms, 
coachmen,  pages,  appeared  before  her  wher- 
ever she  wandered.  Prominent  among  tlicso 
were  several  dignified  functionaries — the  but- 
ler first ;  then  the  French  chrf  de  ciihine  and 
the  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Spiller.  Overall  these 
Miss  Bessie  reigned  as  cjueen  ;  while,  as  her 
prime-minister,  Mrs.  Ilicks  Lugrin  stood  at 
her  side  to  give  her  counsel,  or  to  carry  into 
execution  her  wishes.  Tlius  Mordaunt  Manor, 
on  once  more  being  open  to  tlio  great  world, 
ap])earcd  fully  equipped.  During  the  years 
in  which  it  had  been  closed  every  thing  had 
been  managed  with  the  utmost  care ;  and 
now  it  seemed  about  to  enter  upon  a  new  ca- 
reer, under  auspices  at  least  as  brilliant  as 
any  which  it  had  ever  known. 

As  the  eye  of  the  great  worhl  tlius  came 
to  turn  iiself  upon  tlie  young  mistress  of 
Mordaunt  Ilall,  and  to  subject  her  to  its  scru- 
tinizing gaze  and  its  cold  criticism,  Bessie 
boro  the  ordenl  in  a  manner  wliicli  could  not 
be  surpassed  if  slie  had  been  trained  all  her 
life  for  this  very  thing,  rerfectly  calm  and 
self-possessed,  she  yet  showed  nothing  which 
was  in  any  way  inconsistent  with  the  most 
sensitive  delicacy  and  maiden  modesty ;  she 
appeared  like  the  type  of  innocence  and 
self-poise  combined ;  and  around  all  this 
was  tlirown  the  charm  of  her  rare  and  ra- 
diant beauty.  Society,  whieli  thus  came  to 
criticise,  remained  to  admire ;  so  beautiful, 
and  at  the  same  time  so  wealthy  an  heiress 
had  but  seldom  been  seen  ;  and  she  was  evl- 
dently  one  who  was  adapted  to  shine  in  tho 
lofty  sphere  to  which  she  had  been  born. 
Society  thus  took  note  of  all  her  charms. 
Society  decided  that  Miss  Bessie  had  a  re- 
markably tender  and  ad'eetionate  nature.  So- 
ciety noticed  the  slight  touch  of  Irish  brogue 
in  her  accent,  and  thought  that  it  added 
a  zest  to  her  already  bewitching  manner. 
Society  also  noticed  the  attentions  of  Sir 
Gwyn  Ruthven,  and  smiled  approvingly.  It 
was  without  doubt  a  most  excellent  and  suit- 
able  thing;  and,  if  Sir  (Iwyn  Rutliven  could 
win  her,  the  match  would  be  unexceptionable. 
The  two  largest  estates  in  the  county  already 
adjoined  one  another ;  and  tliis  wou!<l  unite 
them  into  one  magnificent  property.    Society, 


THE   LOST  ONE  FOUND. 


81 


in  foot,  admired  this  prospect  so  very  greatly 
that  it  unnnimoiisly  declurcd  Sir  (iwyn's  at- 
tcntions  to  bo  "  really  riuitc  providcntiiil." 

The  blinuiislimetits  of  the  groat  world  and 
the  devoted  attentions  of  Sir  Gwyn  Rutlivcu 
did  not  make  up  the  whole  of  Besfie'a  life, 
however.  One  part  of  it  was  taken  up  iti  a 
correspondence  which,  though  not  large,  was 
yet  of  immense  importance.  It  was  not 
large,  for  it  consisted  of  but  one  letter  every 
other  day  or  so,  yet  that  one  letter  was  so 
Important  that  most  of  her  time  when  alone 
was  taken  up  with  the  study  of  it,  and  with 
writing  her  answer.  Tlie  letter  which  tilic 
sent  in  reply  was  always  dropjicd  iuto  tho 
n^all-ha-:;  with  her  own  hand,  and  it  always 
bore  the  same  addrc  ss — Kivin  MagrdtU. 

Several  weeks  of  Bessie's  new  life  passed 
away,  and  at  length,  one  day,  she  received  a 
letter  from  tliis  one  correspondent  which  con- 
veyed intelligence  of  such  unusual  importance 
to  her  that  she  remained  most  of  her  time  in 
her  room  with  tho  letter  before  her,  ponder- 
ing over  its  startling  intelligence.  To  Sir 
Gwyn,  who  called  on  her  as  usual,  sho  did 
not  deny  herself,  but  appeared  as  animated, 
as  careless,  and  as  joyous  as  usual ;  but,  after 
his  departure,  she  once  more  sought  her  own 
apartment,  and  there  sat  motionless  for 
hours,  witli  the  letter  in  her  hands,  plunged 
into  tho  deepest  thought,  and  wiili  such  an 
expression  of  anxiety  on  her  brow,  and  such 
a  deep  abstraction  in  her  gaze,  that  if  Sir 
Gwyn  Ruthven  could  have  seen  her  he  would 
scarce  have  been  able  to  recognize  the  face 
of  tho  smiling,  joyous,  exuberant,  and  careless 
girl,  whose  image  had  been  stamped  so  deeply 
upon  his  memory,  and  upon  his  heart. 

After  receiving  that  letter,  Bessie  sat  up 
late  into  the  night,  and  it  was  well  advanced 
toward  morning  when  sho  wrote  a  reply.  Sho 
then  retired,  slept  a  few  hours,  and,  after  ris- 
ing and  taking  a  slight  breakfast,  sho  wort 
herself,  as  usual,  to  mail  her  letter. 

About  a  week  after  this,  a  gentleman 
drove  up  to  tho  gates  of  Mordaunt  Park. 
Dismounting  from  his  carriage,  which  was 
evidently  a  hired  one,  he  paid  the  driver,  who 
at  once  returned  in  the  direction  of  Keswick. 
Upon  this  the  gentleman  went  to  the  porter's 
lodge  and  stood  talking  for  a  few  minutes 
with  the  porter. 

Thi?  new-eomer  was  a  man  of  medium 
Stature,  with  dark  complexion,  which  had  a 
sun-brcv.  .led,  wcatiier-beaten  appearance,  like 
6 


tho  face  of  a  sailor ;  but  the  reflncracnt  of  tho 
features,  and  a  certain  indescribable  sorne- 
tliing  in  tho  cxpn^ssion,  showed  that  ho  was 
something  very  ditlerent.  His  dres;)  showed 
hira  to  be  a  clergyman.  lie  had  heavy  eye- 
broivs,  from  beneath  wl,ich  glowed  piercing 
black  eyes.  His  jaw  was  R(|uuro  and  mas- 
sive, and  yet,  in  spito  of  tliese  signs  of 
strength,  Mj."  I  nd  resolute  will,  the  preva- 
lent expression  i'  lis  iiice  was  one  of  gentle- 
ness ;  and  there  ^  ero  Bufflcient  indications 
there  of  a  nat'  ''c  .vhich  was  full  of  warm  hu- 
man syn  ,  tides.  His  hnir  aS  sprinkled 
with  gr.  tad  he  seemed  "oinowhere  between 
fifty  and  sixty  yea..!  of  age.  lie  walked  with 
a  blow  pace,  and  i.i  'ds  gait  and  in  his  man- 
ner there  wo:  w  ocrlain  unmistakable  signs  of 
feeblenes.-). 

This  man  ston  !  'alking  witli  the  porter 
for  some  time,  and  at  length,  ha'i'ig  satisfied 
himself,  ho  turned  away  and  walked  wyt  tlio 
avenue  toward  tho  ITall.  lie  walked  slowly, 
and  with  feeble  steps,  as  has  been  said,  and 
used  a  cano,  which  he  carried  to  assist  his 
walk.  Ho  frequently  paused,  and  looked 
around  ;  but,  whether  this  was  throu^di  cu- 
riosity or  through  weariness,  did  not  appear. 
At  length  he  camo  within  sight  of  the  Hall. 
Here  there  was,  by  the  side  of  the  avenuo 
and  under  the  trees,  a  rustic  seat,  and  npon 
this  tho  clergyman  wearily  placed  himself. 

He  had  not  been  there  long,  when  tho 
sounds  of  galloping  horses  arose  in  the  dis- 
tance, coming  apparently  from  somewhere 
down  the  avenuo.  Tho  old  man  was  sitting 
on  the  rustic  seat,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
Mordaunt  Manor-house,  and  did  not  appear 
to  he^r  these  sounds.  Soon,  however,  they 
drew  nearer  ;  and  at  length  a  gentleman  and 
lady  came  galloping  by,  on  their  way  to  the 
house.  The  gentleman  was  Sir  Gwyn  Ruth- 
ven. Tho  lady  was  Bessie.  They  had  been 
riding.  Sir  Gwyn  did  not  notice  the  old 
man,  being  too  much  absorbed  in  his  fasci- 
nating coiiipanion  to  bo  at  all  conscious  of 
any  other  i-  :ng;  nor  did  he  see  the  start 
V  hich  the  old  man  gave,  and  the  eager  gaze 
which  ho  directed  toward  them.  Bessie 
caught  one  glimpse  of  him  and  of  his  rapid 
gaze,  but  appeared  not  to  see  him,  for  she 
instantly  turned  her  eyes  away,  and  went 
speeding  past.  Thus,  to  the  old  man,  as 
ho  fixed  his  eyes  on  her,  there  appeared 
this  flitting  vision  of  loveliness ;  the  round, 
rosy,  dimpled  face,  the  sunny  blue  eyes,  tho 


'  * 


83 


AN  OrEN   QUESTION. 


it    '■' 


i! 

I  ! 


[ 
I   ! 


beautiful  perpetual  smile,  and  the  gleaming 
golilen  hair  of  the  young  heiress,  forming  an 
image  of  beauty  that  might  have  excited  the 
odmiratiou  of  the  most  world-worn  or  the 
most  eold-liearted.  She  rode  with  admirable 
grace,  her  elegant  figure  seemed  formed  for 
horsemanship,  and,  thus  speeding  by,  she  was 
borne  swiftly  away  toward  the  house. 

The  old  man  still  sat,  and,  after  she  had 
dismounted,  and  had  disappeared  within,  he 
still  kept  hia  eyes  fixed  upon  the  door-way 
through  vvhicli  she  had  vanished  from  his 
gaze.  An  hour  passed,  but  he  did  not  move. 
At  length.  Sir  Gwyu  reappeared  and  rode 
past  toward  the  gate.  Upon  this,  the  old 
man  rose  and  went  toward  the  house. 

Upon  Bessie's  return,  she  had  allowed  Sir 
Gwyn  to  bask  lor  a  time  in  the  sunshine  of 
her  presence,  together  with  the  shadow  of 
the  presence  of  Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin,  and  had 
been  as  gay  and  as  charming  as  ever.  Upon 
his  departure,  however,  she  had  flown  at  once 
to  her  room.  Hero  all  her  absti-action  re- 
turned; she  seated  herself  by  the  window, 
and  breathlessly  watched  the  movements  of 
the  old  man,  She  had  seen  him !  What 
would  he  do  ? 

She  saw  Sir  Gwyn  ride  past. 

She  saw  the  old  man  then  rise  and  walk 
toward  the  house.  Tben  she  retreated  to  the 
middle  of  the  room  and  waited. 

A  servant  brought  up  a  card : 

"  M.  VAbU  BeniaV 

Bessie  took  it  in  silence,  and  looked  at  it 
carefully. 

"  Tell  him  that  I  shall  be  down  presently," 
said  she,  very  quietly,  "  and  tell  Mrs.  Hicks 
Lugrin  that  I  should  be  obliged  to  her  if  she 
would  come  here." 

The  servant  retired. 

In  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin  en- 
tered. 

Bessie  handed  her  the  card. 

Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin  road  it,  and  said  not  a 
word. 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  said  Bessie, 
"  that,  on  the  whole,  it  would  be  as  well, 
auntie,  if  you  were  not  to  be  present  at  our 
interview."' 

"  Oh,  most  undoubtedly,"  said  Mrs.  Hicks 
Lugrin.  "  I  only  thought  that  perhaps  you 
mi^ht  require  my  presence  for  purposes  of 
corroboration  or  identification." 

"  Never  a  bit,"  said  Bessie ;  "  trust  me 


for  that,  auntie.  Am  I  an  owl  ?  Sure,  it's 
me  that's  well  able  to  take  care  of  myself 
without  any  help  at  all  at  all — and  there  yo 
havf  it.  But  it's  really  getting  awfully  es- 
citing,"  she  added,  in  a  different  tone,  "  and 
do  you  know,  auntie  dear,  I  really  begin  to 
feel  a  little  neiTous  ?  " 

Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin  said  nothing,  and  Bes- 
sie soon  after  went  down  to  the  drawing- 
room. 

The  old  man  was  seated  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  with  his  face  turned  toward  the 
door.  As  she  entered,  she  saw  hia  face,  fig- 
ure, and  expression,  most  distinctly.  A  win- 
dow which  was  on  his  left  threw  light  upon 
him,  and  gave  the  most  distinct  view  possi- 
ble. She  herself  also,  as  she  came  in,  was 
revealed  to  him  as  fully  and  completely.  She 
came  in  as  light  as  a  dream,  with  her  ethereal 
beauty,  her  large,  tender,  deep-blue  eyes,  her 
golden  hair,  her  dimpled  cheeks,  her  sweet 
smile  of  innocence ;  there  was  on  her  face 
a  simple  expression  of  courteous  inquiry, 
blended  with  gracious  welcome ;  and,  with 
this  on  her  face,  she  looked  at  him  steadily, 
with  the  fixed  glance  of  an  innocent  child, 
and  came  toward  him. 

He  rose  and  bowed  ;  then  she  sat  down, 
and  he  resumed  his  seat,  drawing  himself 
nearer  to  her  as  he  did  so.  He  then  looked 
at  her  earnestly  for  some  time.  He  appeared 
agitated.  His  hands  trembled ;  there  was  a 
certnin  solemn  sadness  and  melancholy  on 
his  face. 

"  And  you  arc  Inez  ?  "  he  at  length  said, 
in  a  tremulous  voice. 

At  this,  there  came  up  in  Bessie's  face 
the  deep,  wondering  look  which  often  arose 
in  her  eyes.     She  said,  softly : 

"  Inez  Mordaunt." 

"  Inez  Mordaunt  ?  "  rcperted  the  old  man, 
"  I  saw  you  when  you  were  a  child.  I — I 
knew  your — you.'  parents.  You  have  changed 
so  much  that  I  should  not  have  recognized 
you,  and  you  do  not  look  like  either  of  your 
parents." 

"How  very  funny  1"  said  Bessie;  "and 
did  you  really  see  me  ?  and  so  long  ago  ? 
Indeed,  then,  and  it's  true  what  you  say,  that 
I've  changed ;  for,  when  I  was  a  child,  my 
hair  and  eyes  were  darker.  I've  got  some  of 
my  hair  now — cut  off  by  poor  dc-  darling 
mamma — and  really  do  you  know  it's  quite 
brown  ?  and  isn't  it  funny,  when  I'm  sxtch  a 
blonde  now  f  " 


Sure,  it's 
f  myaelf 

there  yo 
rfuUy  ex- 
ne,  "and 

begin  to 

and  Bes- 
drawing- 
middle  of 
iward  tlio 
3  face,  fig- 
f.    A  win- 
light  upon 
iew  poasi- 
ne  ill,  was 
etcly.    She 
icr  ethereal 
le  eyes,  her 
,  her  sweet 
)n  her  fiico 
us  inquiry, 
,   and,  witli 
im  steadily, 
occnt  child, 

10  Bftt  down, 
ing  himself 
Ihen  looked 
le  appeared 
there  was  a 
lancholy  ou 

length  said, 

Jessie's  face 
often  arose 


the  old  man, 
child.  I— i 
ave  changed 
recognized 
ther  of  your 

essie;  "and 
1  long  ago  ? 
you  any,  that 
a  child,  iny 
got  some  of 
dc.  darling 
BW  it's  quite 
n  I'm  such  a 


r 


BBW—W 


ir  I 


THE  LOST  ONE  FOUND. 


m 


A  melancholy  emilc  came  upon  tlio  old 
man's  lace,  and  a  look  of  tenderness  appeared 
in  his  eyes  as  he  listened  to  Bessie's  prat- 
tle. 

"  And  you  are  Inez?  "  he  said  once  more, 
slowly,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  which  wt.s  full 
of  indescribable  pathos. 

Uessie  said  nothing,  but  smiled  sweetly. 

Thus  far  this  interview  had  certainly  been 
An  unusual  one.  The  old  man's  address  had 
boon  abrupt  and  odd  in  the  extreme.  Evi- 
dently he  had  no  desire  to  be  otherwise  than 
ourteou.^ ;  and  yet  his  manner  showed  a 
strange  lack  of  the  commonest  observances 
of  civility.  Bessie,  on  her  part,  showed  her- 
self quite  at  her  ease;  altogether  frank,  un- 
conventional, and  communicative.  She  evinced 
110  surprise  whatever  at  the  old  man's  singular 
mode  of  address,  but  accepted  it  as  a  mutter 
of  course,  and  certainly  such  a  reception  by 
her  was  quite  as  extraordinary  as  the  be- 
havior of  the  visitor. 

"  You  don't  know  me,"  said  the  stranger ; 
"you  do  not  recognize  the  name  which  I  sent 
up.  I  wonder  if  it  is  possible  for  you  to  guess 
the  errand  upon  which  I  have  come  ?  I  won- 
der how  you  will  bear  the  news  which  I  have 
to  tell  ?  " 

lie  spoke  in  a  tone  of  profound  sadness, 
yet  infinite  sweetness  and  tenderness,  fixing 
upon  Bessie  the  same  gentle  and  loving  look 
■which  he  had  already  turned  toward  her, 
Bessie  looked  back  at  him  inquiringly,  and 
now  a  thange  came  gradually  over  her  own 
face. 

"  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,"  she  said,  in  a 
faltering  voice.  "  You  seem  to  have  somc- 
tliing  dreadful  on  your  mind;  and  I  don't  re- 
member ever  seeing  you  in  all  my  life.  Oh, 
what  is  it  *  Tell  me,  and  do  not — ch,  do 
not ! — keep  me  in  suspense.  It's  something 
awful ;  I  know  it  is.    It  is  some  sad  news  I  " 

Aa  Bessie  said  this,  a,  sudilcn  expression 
of  terror  pussed  across  her  face,  and  she 
clasped  her  hands  and  started  back. 

"  Do  you  remember  your  parents  ?  "  asked 
the  old  man,  in  the  same  tone,  and  regarding 
licr  with  the  same  look. 

"  My  piirents  ?  "  said  Bessie.  "  Oh,  no — 
only  a  little.  My  dear,  darling  mamma  died 
when  I  was  only  three  years  old;  and  my 
poor  dear  papa  left  me  then,  and  went  away 
somewhere,  and  died.  And  I  have  often 
wept — oh  how  bitterly  ! — as  I  thought  of 
tboso  d      ng  ones— lost  entirely— that  I  was 


never  going  to  sue  again  at  all,  at  all !  And, 
do  you  know,  really,  it's  quite  awful?" 

Bessie  sighed,  and  rubbed  her  little  hand- 
kerchief over  her  britiht-bluc  eyes. 

The  old  man's  eyes  now  seemed  to  devour 
her,  as  they  rested  upon  hor  in  the  intensity 
of  their  gaze.  There  was  also  in  them  a  cer- 
tain expression  of  longing,  yearning  love — 
something  deeper  than  any  thing  which  had 
yet  appeared,  and  yet  something  which  was 
the  natural  development  of  that  gentleness 
and  tenderness  with  wliich  he  had  gazed  at 
her  from  the  first. 

It  cost  him  an  effort  to  speak. 

"  Your  parents,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  did  not  both  die.     Your  father  did  not — " 

"Xo,"  said  Bessie;  "poor  dear  papa,  aa 
I  was  saying,  was  so  upset  by  the  death  of 
poor  dear,  dailing  mamma  that  he  left  the 
country,  and  died  abroad,  so  he  did.  And, 
oh !  it  is  so  very,  very  sad  I  " 

The  old  man's  eyes  glistened.  \Va3  it  a 
tear  that  trembled  there  ? 

"Your  father,"  said  he,  in  tremulous 
tones,  "  did  not  die.     He — is — alive." 

"  Oh,  really,  now,"  said  Bessie,  "  you're 
altogether  wrong,  you  know.  Pardon  me — 
but  I  ought  to  know,  when  I've  been  mourn- 
ing over  liira  all  my  life.  Sorrow  a  day  has 
passed  that  I  haven't  folt  what  it  is  to  be  an 
orphan  !  It's  fairly  heart-broke  with  grief  I 
am  when  I  think  of  it.  And  then,  you  know, 
it  was  so  very,  very  hard  for  poor  darling 
papa  to  go  and  die  so  far,  so  very  far 
awuy !" 

"  It  was  all  wrong ;  it  was  all  a  mistake," 
said  the  old  man,  drawing  his  chair  nearer, 
and  looking  at  her  with  more  longing  eyes, 
and  speaking  in  more  tremulous  tones.  "It 
was  a  false  report.  He  was  on  his  way  East. 
He  was  very  ill  at  Alexandria.  It  was  the 
plague.  But  he  recovered.  He  had  givea 
up  the  world,  and  so  ho  never  wrote.  But 
he  did  not  die — " 

"  Sure,  then,"  interrupted  Bessie,  "  he 
might  have  dropped  a  line  to  me.  Oh,  if  I 
v;ould  but  havo  heard  from  hita  only  one 
word !  And  me  all  alone  in  the  wide  world 
— none  to  love  me — none  for  me  to  love — an 
orphan  I  It  was  heart-breaking  entirely,  so 
it  was ;  and  really,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  I 
wonder  how  I  was  able  to  bear  up." 

Again  Bessie  rubbed  her  eyes. 

The  old  man  said  nothing  for  some  time, 
lie  was   struggling  with  profound  emotion, 


^ 


J 


84 


AN'   OPEN  QUESTION. 


and  for  a  few  inimites  was  qviitc  unable  to 
speak. 

"  Inez ! "  said  ho  at  last,  in  a  voice  deep, 
low,  tremulous  with  unutterable  tenderness. 

At  this  Bessie  looked  up  with  the  same 
frightened  faeo  which  she  had  shown  a  short 
time  before. 

"Inez,"  said  the  old  man,  "it  was  hard 
for  you  to  be  left  so  many  years  alone,  as 
you  thought,  in  the  world ;  but  the  reasons 
will  all  be  explained  some  day.  Your  father, 
Inez — your  father  now  mourns  over  this,  and 
Bees  that  he  indulged  a  selfish  grief,  and  was 
too  forgetful  of  you  in  one  sense,  though  he 
never  ceased,  even  in  his  deepest  grief,  to 
love  you  passionately — you  and  that  other 
dear  one,  your  sister.  But  now,  Inez — now 
it  is  over.  Your  father  has  come  back  to 
you.  Look,  Inez — look  at  me !  I  am  changed, 
I  know.  Look !  Do  you  not  see  something 
in  my  face  that  you  remember  ?  " 

At  this  Bessie  rose  from  her  chair,  clasped 
her  hands,  stared  at  him,  and  started  back  a 
few  paces. 

Tears  fell  from  the  old  man's  eyes. 

"  Inez ! "  he  said,  and  then  was  silent. 

"0  sir!  what  do  you  mean  by  this?" 
cried  Bessie.  "  Is  this  real  ?  Do  you  mean 
it  ?  In  Ileaven's  name,  is  this  true  ?  You 
are  mocking  me.  How  can  I  know  it  ?  IIow 
can  I  believe  it  ?     And  so  sudden  ! " 

"Inez!"  said  the  old  man  again  ;  "it  is 
all  true.     I  tell  you  that  I  am  your  father  !  " 

Bessie  now  stared  at  him,  and  her  foce 
underwent  several  very  rcmarV.ablo  changes. 
It  was  a  face  so  mobile  and  so  expressive 
that  it  was  wonderful  how  strongly  the  feel- 
ings that  she  might  wish  to  show  were  shown 
forth  there.  First,  then,  came  surprise,  then 
fear,  then  timid  hope,  then  joy.  Tlie  old  man 
watclied  all  these  changes  breathlessly,  and 
with  tremulous  agitation.  At  last,  Bessie 
seemed  to  comprehend  the  truth ;  and,  as 
this  last  joyous  change  came  over  her  elo- 
quent face,  she  sprung  forward,  and  flung 
herself  into  the  old  man's  arms. 

And  Bornal  Mordaunt  pressed  her  to  his 
heart,  and  kissed  her  tenderly,  and  murmured 
words  of  love  over  her  fair  young  head : 

"Inez!  my  own  Inez!  my  daughter!  my 
darling !  I  Iiave  found  you  at  last,  and  we 
must  never  part  again ! "         ' 


CHAPTER  XX. 


AT  HOME. 


Tnrs  it  was,  then,  that  Bcrnal  Mordaunt, 
after  so  long  an  absence,  came  back  to  his 
own  home. 

The  joy  of  this  meeting  filled  all  his 
heart,  and  he  surrendered  himself  to  it  com- 
pletely. The  sadness  which  years  had  stamped 
upon  his  face  was  succeeded  by  the  sunshine 
of  happiness ;  and  he  could  not  remove  his 
loving  gaze  from  Bessie's  face.  She,  on  her 
part,  conducted  herself  admirably ;  and  ther« 
was  no  lack  of  tender  caresses,  and  of  all  tho 
manifold  signs  of  filial  affection  with  which  a 
loving  daughter  should  receive  a  father  so 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  rectored.  Bes- 
sie's whole  nature  seemed  singularly  gentle, 
and  tender,  and  feminine,  and  soft,  and  ca- 
ressing; and  so  her  father,  after  years  of 
e.xile  and  sorrow,  found  himself  at  last  onco 
more  in  the  possession  of  those  sweet,  domes- 
tic joys  which  ho  had  thought  were  lost 
forever. 

Mrs.  nicks  Lugrin  was  very  properly  over- 
whelmed with  surprise  when  she  learned  what 
had  happened;  but  Bernal  Mordaunt,  who  had 
been  informed  of  her  oflice  in  the  household, 
greeted  lier  with  warm  yet  gentle  courtesy,  as 
his  d.iughter's  friend  and  benefactor. 

There  was  a  whole  world  of  things  to  bo 
talked  over  between  these  two — Bessie  and 
Mordaunt — and  each  had  something  to  tell  to 
satisfy  the  curious  inquiries  of  the  other. 

"  Do  you  not  remember  me  at  all,  dearest 
daughter— not  at  all?"  was  a  frequent  in- 
quiry made  by  Mordaunt 

"  Well,  only  just  a  little  bit — a  little  tiny, 
tiny  bit,  papa  dearest,"  said  Bessie.  "You 
know  I  was  only  three  years  old  when  yoit 
left;  and  I  only  remember  a  dark -haired, 
handsome  man ;  but  now  you're  not  dark- 
haired  at  all,  at  all — that  is,  at  any  rate  it's 
as  gray  as  it  is  dark,  now  isn't  it,  papa  dear- 
est? And,  besides,  you  would  never  have 
known  me,  for  I'm  so  awfully  changed,  if  you 
had  seen  me  anywhere  else,  you  know — no  it 
would  you,  papa  dearest?" 

And  Bernal  Mordaunt,  looking  at  her  lov- 
ingly, could  only  say : 

"  Well,  dear  child,  I  must  confess  that  the 
Inez  I  expected  to  see  was  diffeient  from 
you." 

Bessie  gave    a  gentle  yigh.     Then  Bb» 


AT  HOME. 


m 


ittlc  tiny, 
"  You 
flicn  yoa 
k  -  liaii-cd, 
not  dark- 
rate  it's 
)apa  dcar- 
cvcr  havo 
;ed,  if  you 
now — no  IT 


33  that  the 
lent  from 

Then  she 


Bniilcd.  Then  she  Btooped  forward  and 
kissed  his  forehead. 

"But  you  love  your  poor  little  Inez  all 
the  same,  if  she  has  grown  to  be  an  ugly 
little  blonde — now  don't  you,  papa  dearest  ?  " 

Mordaunt  stroked  her  head  fondly. 

"Ah,  my  child  !"  said  ho,  "I  take  you  as 
you  are,  and  thank  Heaven  for  finding  you  so 
loving  and  so  dear.  Sorrow  and  hardship, 
dearest  Inez,  have  made  your  father  a  very 
different  man  from  the  one  you  remember, 
and  the  father  who  comes  back  to  you  has 
not  long  to  live." 

"  0  papa ! "  murmured  Bessie — "  0  papa ! 
dearest,  dearest  pnpa,  don't — don't — don't 
talk  so  !     You  really  almost  make  me  cry." 

Mordaunt  looked  at  her  lovingly.  Such 
affection  as  this,  so  tender,  so  devoted,  was 
sweet  indeed  to  him. 

Mordaunt's  account  of  his  past  life  (vas 
not  a  very  long  one.  It  was  the  death  of  his 
wife  that  had  been  the  cause  of  his  departure 
from  home,  as  Bessie  already  knew.  Before 
that  he  had  lived  a  life  of  unalloyed  happi- 
ness and  prosperity ;  living  in  splendor  at 
Mordaunt  Manor,  and  holding  a  leading  posi- 
tion in  the  county.  From  all  this  the  death 
of  his  wife  had  suddenly  dashed  him  down, 
lie  had  been  passionately  attached  to  her. 
Ilcr  death  had  been  very  sudden.  In  an  in- 
stant all  interest  in  life  was  lost,  and  all  the 
sweetness  and  light  of  existence  died  out  ut- 
terly, and  were  buried  in  her  grave. 

A  resolution  was  then  taken  by  him, 
which,  under  such  cir  nmstanccs,  was  not  by 
any  means  so  unusual  as  may  be  supposed. 
It  was  to  devote  himself  to  a  religious  life 
for  the  rest  of  his  days.  He  was  a  Roman 
Cathjlic,  and  his  Church  afforded  ample  op- 
jiortunities  for  the  gratification  of  such  a 
wish  as  this.  His  devotion  to  religion  was 
profound  and  earnest.  To  him,  in  his  dark 
and  bitter  grief,  religion  alone  gave  him  any 
consolation;  and  amid  sucli  consolations  he 
Rouglit  to  bury  himself.  Ho  flung  himself 
into  the  arms  of  tlic  Ciiurch.  He  became  a 
priest.  Finally,  in  order  to  carry  out  to  the 
farthest  his  new  desires,  he  sought  to  become 
u  missionary  to  heathen  countries.  This  de- 
sire was  gratified  without  any  very  great  dif- 
ficulty. 

At  the  outset  he  had  taken  steps  to  secure 
a  fitting  homo  for  his  children ;  and  for  this 
purpose  had  applied  to  Mr.  Hennigar  Wy- 
vcrne,  who  was  an  intimate  friend,  and  was, 


also,  a  connection.  This  gentleman  had  con- 
sented to  do  what  Mordaunt  requested,  and 
was  appointed  guardian  of  the  Mordaunt  chil. 
dren,  and  trustee  of  the  estate  till  they  should 
come  of  age.  It  was,  therefore,  with  a  feeling 
of  perfect  peace  on  his  children's  account  that 
he  had  gone  to  his  distant  field  of  labor. 
While  on  his  way  to  the  East  he  had  beea 
attacked  by  the  plague  at  Alexandria,  and 
had  the  narrowest  possible  escape  from  death. 
Recovering,  he  had  resumed  his  journey,  and 
had  spent  many  years  in  India.  Finally,  his 
health  had  broken  down,  and  he  was  com* 
pelled  to  return  to  Europe. 

Now,  no  sooner  had  his  back  been  turned 
upon  the  scene  of  his  labors  and  his  face  set 
toward  Europe,  than  there  arose  within  him. 
a  great  longing  to  see  his  children,  or  at  least 
to  learn  what  had  become  of  them.  Ho  had 
given  himself  up  so  entirely  to  the  work 
which  he  had  imposed  upon  himself,  that  he 
had  held  no  communication  of  any  kind  with 
Mr.  Wyverne ;  and  so,  on  returning  home,  he 
was  in  perfect  ignorance  about  their  fate. 
He  remained  for  a  few  days  in  Rome,  and 
then  travelled  to  London.  He  had  to  visit 
Milan  and  Geneva  on  his  way.  This  took 
him  through  a  part  of  Switzerland,  and 
brought  him  to  Villcneuve.  Tliere  he  was, 
without  knowing  it,  brought  face  to  face  with 
Wyverne  himself.  Not  until  he  reached  Par- 
is had  he  learned  thisi,  and  then  it  was  only 
from  the  papers  and  from  certain  inquiries 
which  he  made  that  he  was  able  to  find  out  the 
truth.  This  discovery  was  a  most  distressing 
one.  He  longed  to  Boe  Wyverne,  but  now  it 
was  too  late.  He  hurried  back  to  Villcneuve, 
but  the  party  had  loft,  and  the  remains  of  the 
dead  had  been  sent  forward  to  London.  He 
retin-ned  to  Paris,  and  was  detained  there  by 
ecclesiastical  affairs  for  some  time,  after 
which  he  hurried  to  London. 

On  inquiring  at  Wyvernc's  house,  he  found 
that  5Iiss  Wyverne  had  gone  away,  and  that 
the  house  was  about  to  be  closed.  No  one 
but  servants  were  there,  and  none  of  those 
could  give  him  any  information.  After  la- 
borious inquiries,  he  was  able  to  find  out 
Wyvernc's  solicitors,  and  called  on  them  for 
information  as  to  his  daughters.  But  the  in- 
formation which  they  gave  was  only  of  the 
most  general  character.  Their  relations  tow- 
ard the  late  Mr.  Wyverne,  they  told  him,  were 
not  nt  all  confidential,  but  only  of  an  ordinary 
businc-s  character;  and,  consequently,  they 


L 


I 


I  !i 


86 


AX   OPEN   QUESTIOX. 


Icnew  nothing  about  his  private  affairfi.  Some 
years  ago  tlicy  had  hoard  that  the  older  Miss 
Mordaunt  had  died  abroad.  Tlie  other  one 
they  believed  was  still  alive,  though  they 
Icnew  nothing  at  all  about  her. 

The  mournful  intelligence  of  the  death  of 
one  of  his  children  was  thus  the  first  definite 
information  which  he  had  received ;  and  beyond 
this  il  seemed  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to 
learn  any  thing.  Rut  his  desire  was  now 
stimulated,  if  possible,  still  more  to  learn  the 
whereabouts  of  his  surviving  child.  lie  went 
back  once  more  to  Mr.  Wyverne's  house  to 
question  the  servants.  Most  of  them  were 
new  ones,  none  had  been  there  more  than 
three  years,  and  of  the  affairs  of  the  family 
they  knew  nothing,  except  what  they  had 
heard  as  the  gossip  of  their  predecessors. 
This  was  to  the  effect  that  Mrs.  Wyverne  had 
separated  from  her  husband  and  was  dead; 
that  Miss  Wyverne  had  lived  at  a  boarding- 
school  until  the  last  year  or  so,  and  had  gone 
to  live  with  some  relatives,  they  knew  not 
where.  Ho  recalled  the  name  of  the  old 
house-keeper  who  had  once  been  there.  It 
was  Klein.  lie  asked  after  her.  He  was 
informed  that  .^ho  had  been  dismissed  for 
drunkenness.     This  was  all. 

He  now  sought  after  this  Mrs.  Klein. 
With  the  help  of  the  police,  he  at  last  found 
her  residence;  but  from  the  woman  herself 
he  could  learn  absolutely  nothing.  This 
arose  partly  from  the  drunken  confusion  of 
her  brain,  but  partly  also  from  some  unac- 
countable suspicion  which  she  seemed  to  en- 
tertain that  ho  was  meditating  some  injury  to 
Miss  Wyverne.  She  remained  obstinate  in 
lier  stupid  unbelief  in  him,  and  from  her 
di.sjointed  and  incoherent  answers  he  could 
gather  nothing. 

After  this  there  remained  nothing  for  him 
but  to  go  to  Mordaunt  Manor.  At  Keswick 
lie  had  learned  that  Miss  Mordaunt  had  re- 
turned home,  and  was  living  there  now.  This 
filled  him  with  hope,  and  he  iiad  come  on- 
ward without  dchiy.  The  coiice:ilmcnt  of  his 
name  arose  merely  from  tlie  uesiro  to  spare 
her  the  shock  that  might  arise  from  too  sud- 
den a  revelation,  and  also  from  a  desire  to  see 
liow  far  she  might  remember  him. 

Such  was  the  Bul)stance  of  Mordnnnt's 
story,  and,  of  course,  where  he  was  in  igno- 
rance, licssie  was  able  to  give  him  all  the  in- 
formation that  he  desired. 

She  informed  him,  therefore,  that  Mr.  Wy- 


verne had  been  the  kindest,  the  most  affec- 
tionate, and  the  most  thoughtful  of  guardians  ; 
that  he  had  sent  her  away  after  his  wife's  de- 
parture to  live  with  a  relative  of  his,  Mrs. 
Hicks  Lugrin;  and  that  she  had  lived  with 
her  ever  since,  with  one  interruption.  A  year 
ago,  Mr.  Wyverne  had  invited  her  to  como 
and  stay  with  his  daughter  for  a  time ;  and 
she  had  been  travelling  with  them  when  ho 
died.  She  informed  Mordaunt,  to  his  intense 
amazement,  that  she  had  been  at  Villeneuve 
at  the  time  of  Mr.  Wyverne's  death ;  and, 
therefore,  that  they  must  have  been  in  closo 
proximity  without  suspecting  it.  Mr.  Wy- 
verne, she  said,  had  suffered  for  years,  and 
had  been  sent  to  the  Continent  by  his  physi- 
cians as  a  last  resort.  About  Mrs.  Wyverne 
she  knew  nothing  whatever,  nor  had  Miss 
Wyverne  even  mentioned  her  name. 

About  Clara  Mordaunt  Bessie  had  but  lit- 
tle to  say.  Clara  had  been  very  much  older 
than  she  was,  nearly  ten  years,  and  had  been 
sent  to  a  boarding-school.  She  had  died 
there,  and  her  death  liad  taken  place  about 
ten  years  ago. 

Bessie's  information,  meagre  as  it  was, 
gave  Mordaunt  all  that  he  could  learn  now, 
since  Mr.  Wyverne,  who  alone  could  'ell  all, 
was  dead.  Her  story  was  inteilarded  witli 
characteristic  remarks  about  Mr.  Wyverne's 
kindness;  abo\it  her  "dear  auntie's"  affec- 
tionate care;  about  Miss  Wyverne's  pcntlo 
friendship,  and  her  deep  grief  over  her  fa- 
ther's death;  and  abo\it  her  own  joy  at  such 
an  unexpected  termination  to  her  own  troub- 
les. 

"And  as  for  poor,  dear,  darling  Iny,  you 
know,  she  has  the  same  name  that  I  have, 
papa  dearest,  and  isn't  that  funny?  and  she 
used  to  call  me  Bessie,  to  prevent  confusion, 
while  I  was  living  at  poor,  dear  Mr.  Wy. 
Verne's — she  was  the  dearest  and  best  of 
girls — and  oh,  so  affectionate.  It  almost 
killed  her,  papa  dear,  for  her  to  lose  her 
dear  papa.  And  wasn't  it  awfully  sad,  now* 
And  she  with  never  a  care  in  the  wide  world 
before  !  Oh,  but  it  was  myself  that  had  the 
sore  heart  for  her !  It  was  too  hard  for  her 
to  bear  that  same.  Sho  wnsn't  ;he  one  that 
would  stand  grief  at  all  at  all  1  And  no  more 
was  1,  by  the  same  token  ;  but,  papa  dLar,  real- 
ly you  know  it  seemed  worse  for  her,  because 
I  was  so  very,  very  young.  But  she  becan}e 
quite  changed.  Her  grief  was  too  much  for 
her,  and  you  wouldn't  have  known  her.     For 


f 


AT   HOME. 


87 


my  part,  1  should  liiive  stayed  with  licr  till 
death,  but  I  saw  that  she  did  not  wish  to  have 
me;  in  fact,  she  licrsclf  went  away  to  some 
of  her  friends,  and  wouldn't  lot  me  go  with 
her,  though  1  wished  to  so.  IJut,  then,  I  need 
not  be  sorry  for  that,  for,  by  coming  here, 
I've  found  you  all  the  sooner — haven't  ],  papa 
dearest?  " 

While  talking  about  Villcnouvo,  Mordaunt 
informed  her  of  a  cross  which  he  had  lost, 
and  which  he  afterward  thought  had  been  lost 
there.  On  his  return  ho  liad  made  inquiries 
about  if,  but  without  ed'ect.  No  one  had  seen 
it.  It  was  a  precious  relic — one  which  he  had 
got  made  in  memory  of  his  dear  wife,  and  had 
worn  ever  since. 

Of  this  cross  Bessie  knew  nothing  what- 
ever. 

Mordaunt  also  mentioned  some  lockets 
which  he  had  left  with  Wyverne. 

"They  were  throe — one  of  my  wife;  one 
of  Clara ;  and  one  of  yourself,  Inez.  I  at  first 
took  them  with  me,  but  I  found  that  they 
only  served  as  reminders  of  my  incurable 
grief,  and  caused  a  distraction  to  my  thoughts 
and  iiTcctions,  which,  henceforth,  I  hoped 
would  be  centred  exclusively  on  religion. 
For  this  cause  I  made  a  final  sacrifice  of  my 
feelings,  and  concluded  to  leave  them  behind 
me.  I  sent  them  to  poor  Wyvcrne,  but  nev- 
er heard  from  him  about  thcni.  Did  you  ever 
Bce  them  ?     Did  he  ever  mention  them  ?  " 

Bessie  shook  her  head. 

"  Oil,  no,  papa  dear ;  no,  nev  m*.  For  you 
know,  of  course,  if  I  had  seen  thein  over,  I 
should  remember;  and  Iiow  awfully  nice  it 
would  bo  to  see  myself  how  I  looked  as  a 
child — and  only  three — and  much  darker 
than  I  am  now.  Only  fiincy !  Oh,  but  it's 
a  strange  thing  entirely!  But,  of  course, 
poor,  dear  Mr.  Wyvcrne  could  never  have  re- 
ceived them,  you  know,  papa  dear — now, 
could  he  ?  " 

To  'aordaunt,  this  suggestion  seemed  a 
probable  one,  and  he  thought  that  Wyvcrne 
must  have  failed  to  receive  those  i)recious 
lockets,  for,  if  ho  had,  he  would  certainly 
have  shown  them  to  his  dear  daughter. 

So  remai'Kable  an  event  as  the  return  of 
Bernal  Mordaunt  after  so  long  an  absence,  and 
after  a  general  belief  in  his  death,  could  not 
be  long  unknown.  Society  hastened  to  offer 
its  congratulations,  and  to  welcome  the  wan- 
derer back  to  its  fold.  But  the  wanderer  did 
not  show  any  very  strong  desire  to  be  wel- 


comed. Society  Boon  became  nware  of  the 
fact  that  licrnal  Mordaunt  was  desirous  of 
quiet  and  seclusion.  The  sorrows  and  hard. 
ships  of  years  hail  produced  their  natural  ef- 
fect upon  his  constitution,  and  ho  felt  liimself 
to  be,  as  he  told  Bessie,  a  broken  man.  Aside 
from  this,  the  profession  which  lie  hid  adopt- 
ed, and  the  life  that  he  had  lived,  had  drawn 
him  Qway  altogether  from  the  great  world ; 
nor  could  he  any  longer  bring  himself  to  feel 
any  sympathy  with  that  world,  or  its  tastes, 
or  its  ways.  What  had  he,  the  world-worn 
m.in,  the  missionary  p'-iest — what  had  he  in 
common  with  a  gay,  thoughtless,  and  frivo- 
lous crowd;  with  a  society  as  light  and  shal- 
low as  that  which  he  saw  around  him  ?  But 
there  were  yet  a  number  of  his  old  friends 
living  who  heard  of  liis  return  with  joy,  and 
hastrned  to  greet  him.  These,  of  course, 
were  different  from  the  common  run,  and 
Mordaunt  received  them  with  unfeigned  pleas- 
ure and  cordiality.  Yet  even  these  visitors 
could  not  help  seeing  that  the  old  Bernal  Mor- 
daunt lived  no  longer.  This  man  was  like 
another  person ;  his  sympathies,  and  tastes, 
and  feelings,  had  all  changed.  A  few  words 
of  conversation  about  the  old  days  served  to 
exhaust  the  subject  of  the  past ;  and  then 
there  remained  no  subject  of  common  interest 
in  the  present.  So,  though  Bernal  Mordaunt 
tried  to  he  cordial,  and  his  old  friends  tried 
to  be  enthusiastic,  yet  the  conditions  of  each 
had  so  changed  that  a  feeling  of  dissatisfac- 
tion was  the  only  result. 

Bernal  Mordaunt  thus  showed  no  desire 
to  regain  that  position  in  the  great  world 
which  had  once  been  his  ;  and  might  now  be 
his  if  he  had  chosen  to  chiim  it.  lie  hud 
come  home  as  a  broken-down  mtin,  and  he 
wished  to  remain  home  as  quietly  as  possible. 
The  calm  of  domestic  joys,  the  dear  delight 
of  a  daughter's  fond  affection,  these  were  the 
only  things  which  he  now  valued.  A  return 
to  Mordaunt  Manor  brought  back  old  associa- 
tions, and  revived  all  those  memories  which 
the  years  had  only  partially  dimmed.  Bessie 
became  more  beloved,  more  dear,  and  more 
precious  to  him  every  day.  The  old  man  had 
only  this  one  object  in  all  the  world  to  love, 
nnd  upon  her  he  lavished  all  his  afTeotions. 
For  her  part,  it  must  be  confessed  that  no 
daughter  could  have  been  more  ailectionatc, 
more  attentive,  more  watchful  of  every  mood 
of  his,  more  solicitous  of  his  comfort.  She 
gave  herself  up  to  him  completely. 


88 


AN   OPEN   QUESTION'. 


s 


There  was  an  incessant  vigilance  in  Bes- 
sie's watchful  care  of  Mordaunt  which  sur- 
prised and  delighted  him,  exciting  his  tender- 
est  gratitude,  and  leading  to  most  touching 
expressions  of  affection  on  his  part.  Even 
Sir  Gwyn  was  now  put  in  a  secondary  place. 
Bernal  Mordaunt  was  supreme  in  Mordaunt 
Manor,  Bessie  was  his  daughter  and  his 
slave.  Sir  Gwyn  saw  the  new  idol  of  Bessie's 
heart,  and  had  nothing  to  say  or  do  but  join 
in  the  common  reverence.  And  this  he  did 
honestly  and  cordially. 

The  fact  is,  there  never  was  a  bettor  fel- 
low than  this  same  Sir  Gwyn  Kuthven.  He 
was  desperately  in  love  with  Bessie  by  this 
time,  and,  though  no  formal  declaration  had 
as  yet  escaped  liis  lips,  still  there  was  an  evi- 
dent understanding  between  them,  and  he  felt 
that  Bessie  was  aware  of  his  feelings  and  de- 
sires. Now  it  happened  that  Bernal  Mor- 
daunt had  come  home  at  the  very  juncture 
when  he  wished  to  have  Bessie  most  to  him- 
self, and  the  most  critical  time  for  his  own 
prospects.  Still  the  young  fellow  scarcely 
complained,  even  to  himself.  The  restoration 
of  a  father,  long  mourned  as  dead,  seemed  to 
liim  to  be  an  event  which  could  be  thought 
of  with  no  other  feelings  than  those  of  sol- 
emn joy ;  and  Bernal  Mordaunt  had  that  in 
his  face  which  excited  in  the  mind  of  the 
young  man  the  deepest  reverence  and  even 
affection.  Among  those  who  greeted  Bernal 
Mordaunt  none  was  so  cordial,  so  sincere,  and 
BO  respectful,  as  Sir  Gwyn. 

Bernal  Mordaunt  scarcely  noticed  any 
others  in  that  society  which  sent  its  repre- 
sentatives to  welcome  him  ;  but  Sir  Gwyn 
Ruthven  could  not  escape  his  notice,  and,  out 
of  Mordaunt's  own  tender  and  vigilant  pa- 
rental feeling,  he  soon  detected  the  love  which 
Sir  Gwyn  had  for  Bessie.  This  discovery 
tnado  him  anxious  to  know  more  about  the 
young  baronet,  and  thus  he  sought  him  out ; 
and  the  result  was  to  create  in  his  mind  feel- 
ings of  strong  esteem  for  Sir  Gwyn,  and  of 
thankfulness  that  his  daughter  should  have 
■won  the  regard  of  so  worthy  a  man.  This 
discovery  also  produced  a  change  in  his  own 
attitude.  He  began  to  fear  that  he  had  been 
too  selfish,  and  had  been  monopolizing  too 
much  of  his  daughter's  time  and  care,  lie, 
therefore,  tried  to  remain  more  by  himself, 
BG  that  he  might  not  interfere  in  the  slightest 
degree  with  his  beloved  daughter's  happiness. 
Tet,  strange  to  say,  Bessie  would  not  allow 


this.  She  began  to  reproach  him  for  growing 
tired  of  her  already,  and  so  Bernal  Mordaunt 
had  to  give  up  his  little  plan  of  self-sacrifice, 
and  indulge  his  paternal  fondness  for  hia 
daughter  without  any  further  fear  of  being  de 
trop.  But  Sir  Gwyn  had  no  reason  to  com- 
plain, for  he  was  always  made  cordially  wel- 
come by  Mordaunt ;  and  this  species  of  do- 
mestic footing  upon  which  he  found  himsi'lf 
could  not  be  otherwise  tlian  i)leasing. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


U  A  F  F  L  K  D     FANCIES. 


Aftkr  that  interview  with  Father  Ma- 
grath,  Kane  IJellmuth  returned  to  Paris  with 
a  graver  sense  of  mystery,  and  a  profoundor 
feeling  of  gloom.  The  remarks  of  the  priest 
had  stung  liira  to  the  very  soul ;  and  yet  he 
did  not  see  how  they  could  have  been  inten- 
tional. He  did  not  think  it  possible  that  this 
priest — a  man  whom  he  had  never  seen  be- 
fore, and  one  who  certainly  could  never  have 
seen  him — could  have  penetrated  that  deep 
disguise  which  years  and  grief  had  thrown 
over  him — a  disguise  far  more  effectual  for 
concealment  than  any  mere  change  of  attire 
or  arrangement  of  hair  and  beard.  It  seemed 
evident  to  him  then  that  the  priest's  words, 
sharp  and  incisive  though  they  were,  must 
have  been  uttered  quite  spontaneously,  and 
arose  from  his  indignant  sympathy  with  the 
injured  Clara  Mordaunt,  without  any  suspi- 
cion that  he  was  speaking  to  her  murderer. 

The  faint  hope,  therefore,  that  had  been 
raised  within  his  mind  by  Blake's  suggestions, 
had  been  dissipated  by  this  interview  with 
the  priest,  and  his  journey  had  proved  worse 
than  useless.  All  that  he  had  heard  had  only 
served  to  confirm  his  worst  fears,  and  to  tear 
open  afresh  the  old  wound  of  his  sorrow  and 
remorse.  But,  in  addition  to  this,  there  re- 
mained the  mystery  of  the  apparition,  which 
was  now  even  more  inexplicable  than  ever. 
Had  he  been  able  to  think  for  one  moment 
that  his  brain,  or  his  optic  nerve,  or  even  his 
digestive  organs,  might  be  in  a  diseased  con- 
dition, or  in  a  condition  even  approximating 
to  it,  he  might  then  have  had  an  easy  expla- 
nation. But  nothing  of  this  was  the  case. 
His  bodily  frame  in  every  part  and  every 
function  had  never  been  more  sound  and 
vigorous.    The  apparition,  he  believed,  must 


BAFI'LEU  TANCIKS, 


89 


I 


have  an  olijoctive  existenco,  wliatcvor  it  was. 
It3  niysteiioua  inovcracntf,  the  tremendous 
cfTect  wliieh  it  produced  upon  him  in  niiud 
and  body,  the  extraordinary  expression  of  its 
face,  and  the  never-to-be-forgotten  look  of  its 
eyes  aa  they  rested  upon  him,  all  conspired 
to  increase  his  conviction  that  there  was 
Bomethinn;  of  the  supernatural  about  it,  lie 
now  could  have  no  other  f.pectation  but  that 
it  would  repeat  its  visits.  With  this  expec- 
tation, he  tried  to  nerve  himself  to  a  resolu- 
tion to  force  himself  out  of  that  passive  state 
in  which  he  had  sunk  on  former  occasions, 
and  to  take  some  action — to  accost  it — or  at 
least  to  follow  it.  In  this  way,  if  it  were  pos- 
sible, he  might  be  better  able  to  fathom  the 
mystery.  But  to  nerve  one's  self  up  to  a  res- 
olution in  the  absence  of  the  terror  was  a  far 
different  thing  from  effecting  it  in  its  face 
and  presence ;  no  one  knew  this  fact  bettor 
than  Kane  Ilellmuth,  and  he  was  too  con- 
scious of  his  weakness  to  make  resolutions 
which  could  not  be  carried  out.  He  could 
only  resolve,  in  a  general  way,  to  struggle 
more  strenuously  against  his  weakness,  and 
hope  that  another  meeting  would  find  him 
less  unprepared. 

It  was  in  this  frame  of  mind  that  Kane 
Ilellmuth  returned  to  his  lodgings.  Blake 
had  not  expected  him  back  so  soon,  and 
therefore  was  surprised  when  his  friend  culled 
at  his  own  rooms,  lie  had  not  entertained  a 
visitor  in  those  rooms  since  that  memorable 
evening  when  Dr.  O'Rourke  told  him  the  ap- 
palling story  of  the  monk  Aloysius,  When 
Kane  Ilellmuth's  knock  came,  he  was  think- 
ing over  that  very  circumstance,  and  wonder- 
ing what  had  become  of  O'Rourke,  from 
whom  he  had  not  heard  a  word  since  his  de- 
parture. Various  circumstances  had  inten- 
sified his  interest  in  O'Rourke's  project,  which 
had  at  first  seemed  so  wild,  but  which  had 
been  presented  to  hira  as  so  feasible.  At  the 
present  time,  he  jumped  up  hastily  and  sprung 
to  the  door,  expecting  O'Rourke,  and  it  was 
with  a  momentary  feeling  of  disappointment 
that  he  saw  Kane  Ilellmuth.  But  this  visitor 
was  also  welcome,  for  he  had  been  to  London  ; 
ho  had  perhaps  seen  Inez,  and  he  could  tell 
liira  how  she  was  bearing  the  bereavement 
with  which  she  had  been  r.fflicted. 

So,  no  sooner  had  he  recognized  his  friend, 
than  he  poured  forth  a  current  of  questions. 
Had  he  actually  been  to  London  ?  Why  had 
be  come  back  bo  soon  ?    Had  be  found  out 


any  thing?  Hud  lie  scon  Miss  Wyvernc  ? 
Had  he  licard  any  thing  about  her?  Had  he 
askod  any  thing  about  her?  To  all  these 
questions  Ilelhnuth  listened  in  gloomy  si- 
lence. At  length,  he  seated  himself,  and  then 
leisurely  told  the  general  outlines  of  his 
story.  To  this  Blake  listened  with  an  impa- 
tience which  he  tried  in  vain  to  repress ;  and 
at  length,  as  UcUmuth  ended  without  having 
made  any  mention  of  the  only  subject  about 
which  he  cared  to  hear,  he  onco  mn-o  reit- 
erated his  questions.  To  these,  of  course, 
Ilcllmutii  could  give  no  satisfactory  answers. 
He  had  not  seen  her,  and  she  had  only  been 
spoken  of  in  a  casual  way  by  Father  Ma- 
grath.  He  had  mentioned  her  name  merely 
in  connection  with  her  recent  bereavement. 
He  told  what  the  priest  had  said  about  the 
condition  of  Mr.  Wyverne's  affairs,  and  Blako 
was  astonished  and  shocked  to  learn  that  the 
lady  whom  he  had  regarded  as  a  great  heiress 
was  really  no  better  than  a  penniless  depend- 
ant. Of  course,  no  idea  ever  entered  his 
mind  about  the  credibility  of  the  priest's 
statements.  The  testimony  of  one  who  oc- 
cupied so  important  and  so  confidential  a  po- 
sition in  the  family  as  this  man  evidently  did, 
was  of  itself  final,  and  left  no  room  for  doubt 
in  the  mind  of  cither. 

Another  deep  impression  was  produced 
upon  Blake  by  Father  llagrath's  treatment 
of  Mr.  Wyverne's  dying  declaration.  He 
had  half  believed  in  their  actual  truth,  and 
had  led  Inez  to  feel  the  same,  though  that 
truth  seemed  to  him  most  bewildering  and 
most  incredible.  Now,  however,  all  such 
ideas  would  have  to  be  dismissed.  Father 
Magrath  must  know  perfectly  well  the  truth 
about  the  past  life  of  his  friend,  and  his 
summary  rejection  of  Mr.  Wyverne's  declara- 
tion as  utter  nonsense,  together  with  his  very 
clear  and  natural  explanation  of  the  facts  of 
the  case,  left  no  room  for  further  discussion 
on  that  subject.  After  all,  from  almost  any 
point  of  view,  it  was  far  easier  to  cr 'sider 
his  words,  as  Father  Magrath  expr'  ,sed  it, 
the  ravings  (>{  delirium,  than  as  the  sober 
utterance  of  reason.  If  any  perplexity  now 
remained  on  Blake's  mind  with  regard  to 
this  subject,  it  arose  wholly  out  of  his  moth- 
er's mysterious  language  with  reference  to 
that  man  with  whom  he  had  become  ac- 
quainted in  so  singular  a  manner,  and  Mr. 
Wyverne's  own  very  remarkable  regard  for 
himself.'    Still,  perplexing  as  these  things 


-' 


90 


A.V   OPEN'   QUESTION'. 


iniglit  l)C,  ho  WaH  now  forced  to  conchifle 
Ihiit  they  must  be  accounted  for  in  any  other 
way  rather  tlmn  that  in  which  he  had  lately 
been  interpreting  them. 

IJolli  of  these  men,  then,  had  been  indul- 
ging in  fancies,  whicti  now  seemed  to  them 
not  only  untenable  but  nonsensical. 

These  may  bo  enumerated  : 

First.  Kane  ilellnuith  had  indulged  in  a 
vague  hope  that  the  wife  who  had  died  ten 
years  ago  might  not  have  died  at  that  time,  as 
he  supposed. 

Secondbi.  That  the  mysterious  apparition 
which  so  strongly  resembled  her  might  be  ac- 
counted fur  on  the  ground  that  it  was  really 
herself. 

Thirdhj.  Blake  hud  fancied  that  Mr.  \Vr- 
verne,  wlien  in  the  evident  delirium  of  mortal 
illness,  had  been  speaking  the  language  of 
calm  and  sober  reason. 

Fourtlihi.  lie  had,  therefore,  been  led  to 
believe  in  these  delirious  words,  and  to  sup- 
pose that  Inez  Wyverne  was  not  the  daugh- 
ter of  Ilennigar  Wyverne. 

FiftMij.  For  the  B.imo  reason  he  had 
brought  himself  almost  to  the  belief  that  he — 
Basil  Blake,  M.  D. — was  the  son  of  this  Ilen- 
nigar Wyverne. 

Xow,  all  these  fancies,  and  all  other  fan- 
cies connected  with  these  more  or  less  directly, 
were  at  once  scattered  to  the  winds;  and 
Basil  Blake  could  only  congratulate  himself 
that  his  unselfis!)  consider;ition  for  Inez  had 
prevented  him  from  entering  upon  so  absurd 
a  search  as  this  would  have  been.  It  was 
gratifying  in  other  ways,  too.  He  saw  now 
that  one  trouble,  which  had  so  distressed 
Inez,  would  be  dissipated ;  and  he  saw  al.so 
that  the  false  position,  in  which  his  own  ten- 
derly beloved  and  honored  mother  had  been 
placed  by  Hennigar  Wyverne's  declaration, 
had  no  existence  whatever. 

All  this  time,  as  will  be  seen,  brth  Kane 
Ilellmuth  and  Blake  remained  in  ignorance 
of  one  important  fact.  Neither  of  them  had 
the  slightest  idea  that  Inez  had  left  her  home. 
If  Father  Magrath  had  known  this,  he  had  at 
least  chosen  to  say  nothing  whatever  about 
it.  According  to  his  statement,  Bernal  Mor- 
daunt  was  the  father  of  Bessie;  and,  there- 
fore, the  belief  which  had  caused  the  (light 
of  Inez  had  apparently  no  place  in  his  mind. 
The  story  which  he  had  told  Kane  Ilellmuth 
accorded  in  all  points  with  the  account  which 
Bessie  had  given  of  herself  to  Ine«,  though 


not  altogether  with  the  story  which  she  had 
told  Sir  (iwyn,  or  the  reminiscences  of  the 
past  which  she  had  narrated  to  Bernal  Mor- 
daunt  himself  Inez,  however,  had  indulged  her 
own  beliefs,  and  hod  acted  upon  her  own  im- 
pulses ;  and  now,  as  has  been  seen,  at  the 
very  time  when  Ulakc  and  Kane  Ilellmuth 
were  holding  this  conversation,  she  was  far 
away  from  her  own  home.  While,  therefore, 
Blake  was  eagerly  (lue^tioning  Kane  Ilell- 
mutli  about  her,  lie  had  no  idea  that  she  h.id 
left  her  home,  and  that,  too,  with  I'aris  for 
her  destination — that  she  might,  even  now, 
be  not  very  far  from  him.  IJut  such  a  thing 
could  not  possibly  be  suspected  under  any 
circumstances,  and  the  dismissal  of  his  fan- 
cies made  it  inconceivable  to  him  that  she 
should  be  anywhere  else  than  at  home. 

Among  all  the  facts  which  Blake  gathered 
from  Kane  llellmuth's  account  of  liis  visit, 
the  one  that  produced,  perhaps,  after  all,  the 
most  profound  efl'cct  upon  him,  was  the  star- 
tling and  unexpected  announcement  of  her 
poverty. 

At  first  this  shocked  him,  but  afterward 
other  feelings  arose  within  him.  Siie  was  no 
longer  a  great  heiress  !  Iler  father's  wealth, 
it  seemed,  was  all  fictitious.  Tlie  great  heir- 
ess was  an  utterly  destitute  and  penniless  de- 
pendant. She  would  have,  henceforth,  to 
trust  fo»  her  very  daily  bread  to  the  bounty 
or  the  pity  of  her  friends. 

A  tumult  of  emotion  arose  within  Blake's 
heart;  and,  after  the  first  natural  feeling  of 
pity  or  regret,  there  came  a  sense  of  gratilica- 
tion  and  triumph.  Such  feelings  were  quite 
natural.  Far,  hitherto,  the  great  wealth  of 
Miss  Wyverne  had  seemed  almost  appalling 
to  one  in  his  situation,  with  his  fe  'ings  tow- 
ard her,  and  hopes.  Her  wealth  elevated  her 
far  above  him,  so  far,  indeed,  that  he  almost 
despaired  of  ever  reaching  so  higli.  He  could 
oidy  hope  to  attain  to  an  equality  with  her  by 
some  sudden  stroke  of  Fortune.  He  shrunk 
from  the  position  of  even  an  apparent  for- 
tune-hunter; and  his  high  sense  of  honor  and 
manly  pride  recoiled  from  the  apprehension 
of  the  world's  comments  upon  him,  even  if  it 
should  be  possible  for  him  to  win  so  great  an 
heircs?.  It  was  this  great  difference  in  their 
positions  that  had  held  him  back  even  when 
Mr.  Wyverne  had  so  strongly  favored  his  ad- 
vances, and  had  over  and  over  again  prevent- 
ed him  from  saying  to  her  that  which  he 
longed  to  say,  and  which  she  herself  some- 


' 


n.VFFLED   TANCIKS. 


01 


times  «ecmB(l  not  imwllliiif;  to  licar.  Now, 
liowi'vor,  the  dUn'reiico  was  dcstroyoil.  He 
fournl  liimsclf  on  a  level  with  her,  not  hy  his 
own  elevation,  but  through  her  dopression. 
Had  lio  been  merely  a  friend,  ho  would  have 
felt  sorrow,  but,  being  an  ardent  lover,  he  re- 
joiced. It  gave  liiiii  hope.  As  soon  as  the 
lirst  sharpness  of  her  recent  bercnvemcnt 
should  be  railigatcd,  ho  might  go  to  her  and 
tell  hor  all.  It  only  remained  for  him  to 
m;ike  himself  able  to  give  her  a  home  in  or- 
der to  ask  her  to  bo  hi^. 

Tills  now  became  his  one  idea — to  win 
Inez. 

IJut,  in  order  to  win  hor,  it  would  be  ne- 
cessary for  him  greatly  to  improve  his  pres- 
ent position.  Just  now,  he  was  doing  no 
more  tliun  enabled  him  to  support  himself 
and  assist  his  mother.  Under  present  cir- 
cumstances, ho  could  not  gain  hor.  The  one 
thing  that  ho  wanted  was  a  rise  in  life.  lie 
wanted  it  immediately,  lie  was  burning  with 
impatience,  if  not  to  win  Inez  at  once,  at 
least  to  see  his  way  toward  gaining  such  a 
prize. 

Kane  llellinuth  left,  and  Rasil  I'lakc  was 
alone.  Now,  there  eame  back  the  thought 
wliieh  ho  had  entertained  when  Kane  llell- 
inuth'.- knock  had  startled  him.  Ho  recalled 
the  memorable  interview  with  Dr.  O'Rourkc — 
the  story  of  Aloysius.  One  thought  arose, 
and  stood  forth  prominently  in  h'S  mind,  ris- 
ing up  to  grander  proportions,  till  all  his  ex- 
cited soul  was  filled  with  one  vi-^ion — a  vision 
of  splendor  unutterable — of  wealth  illimitable 
—  the  vision  which  O'Rourke's  vehement 
words  had  once  before  imparted  to  his  imagi- 
nation, and  which  now  once  more  arose  and 
wouM  not  bo  driven  away — tho  treasure  of 
the  (Joesars. 

At  another  time,  and  under  other  circum- 
stances, Blake  might  have  reasoned  away  his 
gathering  faith  in  O'Rourke's  theory;  but 
now  his  love  for  Inez,  his  impatience  to  win 
her,  his  own  poverty,  her  dependence,  his  in- 
tense desire  for  some  immediate  action,  all 
forced  his  thoughts  to  dwell  upon  this,  and 
caused  him  to  give  to  it  that  faith  which  his 
will  rather  than  his  reason  dictated.  Pome 
treasure  might  be  there,  at  any  rate.  Wheth- 
er it  had  been  buried  there  in  ancient  or  in 
medifcval  times  mattered  not.  As  long  as 
any  treasure  might  be  there,  whether  of  tlie 
Cscsars  or  tho  popes,  tho  Ilohonstaufens  or 
the  Roman  barons,  it  was  worth  a  search. 


Failure  could  do  no  harm  ;  it  coulJ  involvo 
no  loss ;  while  success  would  give  him  all 
that  his  wiliiest  fancies  coidd  portray.  In 
spite  of  himself,  therefore,  his  thoughts  con- 
stantly reverted  more  and  more  every  day  to 
this  dazzling,  this  transcendent,  this  nnparal- 
leled  project;  and,  while  he  struggled  to  re- 
press too  great  eagerness  of  hope,  the  remem- 
branco  came  to  bis  mind  of  all  those  vehe- 
ment arguments  with  which  O'Rourke  had 
once  before  reasoned  down  his  incredulity, 
and  enforced  at  least  a  temporary  acquies- 
cence in  the  credibility  of  his  theory.  Ho 
recalled  also  the  minuteness  of  details  which 
had  characterized  the  story  of  Aloysius,  and 
tho  stress  which  O'Rourke  had  laid  upon 
this;  he  recalled  what  ho  knew  of  the  char- 
acter of  O'Rourkc  himself,  a  man  who,  as  far 
as  he  could  judge,  seemed  too  hard  and  prac- 
tical, too  much  possessed  of  common-sense, 
to  become  a  prey  to  visionary  projects  ;  and, 
to  Rlako's  mind,  O'Rourke's  own  character 
appeared  one  of  the  strongest  arguments  in 
favor  of  the  bulk  of  his  theory. 

During  Blake's  stay  at  St.  Malo,  the  events 
of  his  life  had  been  so  interesting  that 
O'Rourke's  plan  had  become,  if  not  forgot- 
ten, at  least  obscured  by  other  things.  In 
the  presence  of  Inez,  even  the  treasure  of 
the  Cicsars  became  a  matter  of  small  im- 
portance. The  days  pas;  "d,  and,  as  every 
day  Inez  Wyvcrne  oeoipicd  a  larger  space  in 
his  thoughts,  so  O'Rourkc  and  liis  projects 
became  less  and  less  prominent.  At  length 
the  tragedy  of  Villencuve  occurred,  and  Inez 
suddenly  became  alienated.  Between  him 
and  her  a  gulf  seemed  to  have  openeii,  arising 
from  that  mysterious  declaration  of  the  de- 
lirious father,  which  seemed  to  place  them 
both  in  so  false  a  position  toward  one  anoth- 
er. This  last  occurrence  had  furnished 
Blake's  raind  with  new  thoughts,  and  the 
alienation  of  Inez  had  given  him  new  anxie- 
ties. Thus  they  had  separated  ;  and,  while 
tho  coldness  of  Inez  had  prevented  her  from 
exhibiting  tho  warmth  of  common  friendship, 
his  own  delicacy  and  his  respect  for  her  grief 
had  prevented  him  from  showing  in  any  way 
tho  deeper  feelings  of  his  own  heart. 

But  now,  under  those  new  circumstances, 
every  feeling  that  could  influence  him  combined 
to  direct  his  thoughts  once  more  to  the  forgot- 
ten plan  of  O'Rourkc.  Day  succeeded  to  day, 
and  the  more  he  thought  of  it  the  more  did 
his  thoughts  cling  to  it.    Week  succeeded  to^ 


92 


AN   OPES'   QUESTION. 


li  ^li 


il 


^i 


i  II 


[>\  n 


week,  aud  tlicsio  thoiiglitH  came  to  be  tipptT- 
ino8t  iu  liis  uiiiul.  It  cnmc  at  last  to  thifi: 
that  It  waa  eiinply  imposiiible  for  liim  to  take 
liny  interest  in  any  other  tiling  so  long  as  this 
(ihould  be  undeciJeil.  Ho  brilliant  a  plan  for 
oecuring  at  one  stroke  the  fortunes  of  his  life 
woB  not  to  be  easily  set  aside  or  lightly  dis- 
regarded ;  more  than  this,  it  forced  itsi.df 
more  and  more  upon  his  attention,  and  finally 
engrossed  all  his  thoughts. 

So  aggressive  were  these  thoughts,  and  so 
absorbing,  that  all  other  things  at  length  lost 
their  interest ;  and,  eo  long  as  this  was  held 
in  suspense,  he  was  unfit  for  any  thing  else. 
Kane  llellniuth  could  not  help  seeing  that 
Blake  was  preoccui)ied,  and  i)rofoundly  inter- 
ested in  some  purpose ;  but  what  it  was  he 
forbore  to  intiuirc.  Blake  never  alluded  to 
the  subject,  even  in  the  remotest  way.  He 
remembered  O'llourke's  warning,  and  was  re- 
solved that  no  carelessness  or  rash  confidence 
of  his  should  endanger  the  success  of  this 
great  enterprise. 

Meanwhile,  the  days  passed  on,  and  the 
weeks  also,  and  O'Kourke  gave  no  sign.  As 
the  lime  passed,  Blake  waited,  expecting  every 
(lay  to  hear  from  him  or  sec  him.  Between 
Ills  interview  with  O'Rourko  and  his  return  to 
Paris,  eight  weeks  had  elapsed  ;  several  weeks 
more  had  passed  away  since,  and  still  there 
was  no  sign.  Tlic  three  months  would  soon 
be  up. 

What  then  ? 

The  longer  his  suspense  lasted  the  greater 
his  impatience  grew,  and  at  length  that  im- 
patience became  intolerable.  It  caused  in- 
numerable speculations  as  to  the  result  of 
O'Rourke's  attempts  thus  far.  Sometimes  ho 
feared  that  O'Rourko  had  changed  his  mind 
about  taking  an  assistant,  and  had  resolved 
to  do  all  the  work  himself.  At  other  times 
he  feared  that  some  disaster  might  Lave  oc- 
curred,  and  that  the  bold  explorer  into  those 
subterranean  realms  had  paid  for  his  temerity 
with  his  life.  Again  Lis  fears  took  a  new 
shape,  and  led  him  to  suppose  that  the  ex- 
periment had  been  tried,  the  search  had 
been  made,  and  had  resulted  in  such  a 
total  failure  that  O'Rourke  had  retired  in 
shame  and  disappointment  too  deep  to  al- 
low him  even  to  give  notice  of  his  failure  to 
Lis  proposed  confederate.  This  fact  of 
Blake's  anxiety,  and  of  Lis  numerous  specu- 
lations about  the  causes  of  O'Rourke's  silence, 
shows  better  than  any  thing  else  liow  com- 


])letely   this  treasure  -  hunting  Hchcmc    L.id 
taken  possession  of  Lis  soul. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  RCTL'RN  OF  ANOTHKR  MESSCNdKlt. 

At  length  one  day  a  tclegr.iphio  dispatch 
was  brought  to  Blake.  He  opened  it,  with  a 
vague  thought  that  it  might  bo  some  ill  news 
from  his  mother,  from  whom  he  had  heard 
nothing  for  some  time.  It  was  not  from 
England.  It  was  from  Rome.  It  was  from 
O'Rourke.  Blake's  heart  beat  high  Aviih 
hope  as  ho  read  it,  thoi  in  those  few 
words  there  was  but  littlr  a  definite  char- 
acter.    The  dispatch  was        hUows: 

"  Have  made  good  btghining.  Lc  Park  two 
days.     He  ready." 

The  three  months  were  almost  up  when 
this  came.  Blake's  fever  of  excitement  had 
reached  its  height.  His  suspense  was  be- 
coming intolerable.  In  the  midst  of  such 
feelings  this  message  came,  and  served  to 
stimulate  Lis  Lopo  to  the  utmost.  In  that 
meagre  dispatch  there  was  no  mention  made 
of  tho  particulars  of  the  Roman  expedition, 
but  O'Rourke  spoke  of  a  "good  beginning," 
and  told  him  to  be  ready.  He  could  not  wish 
for  any  thing  better.  It  was  all  that  O'Rourke 
had  proposed  to  do  by  himself.  Any  thing 
more  he  had  already  decided  to  defer,  even 
to  attempt,  until  he  should  have  a  companion 
and  an  assistant.  Best  of  all,  O'Rourke  would 
bo  here  in  two  days,  and  ho  would  know  all. 

The  two  days  passed  slowly.  Blake  saw 
Kane  Ilellmuth  once.  The  two  friends  had 
but  little  to  say.  Ilellmuth  was  preoccupied. 
Something  unusual  had  occurred,  but  Blake 
had  too  much  on  his  own  mind  to  notice  it. 
Had  not  Blake  himself  been  so  taken  up  with 
that  dazzling  plan  which  now  filled  all  Lis 
thoughts,  and  lured  him  on  constantly  with  a 
resistless  fascination,  he  could  not  have  failed 
to  notice  the  troubled  aspect  of  his  friend's 
face.  Some  now  tiling  had  evidently  hap- 
pened, but  what  it  was  Blake  did  not  ask,  nor 
did  Kcne  Hellnnitii  tell. 

That  same  evening  Blake  was  alone  in  his 
room.  Ho  expected  O'Rourke  on  the  arrival 
of  tho  Marseilles  train;  and,  if  he  did  como 
by  that,  he  could  not  hope  to  see  him  much 
bcforo  midnight.  Time  passed.  Ac  last  raid- 
night  came.    About  half  an  Lour  afterward 


Tin:    KKTUHN   or  ANOTIIKU   MESSKX(iKK. 


03 


had 


niako  heard  steps  ascending  tlio  stairway. 
Ill  uncontrulliiblu  excitement  lio  spriiiif?  to 
tlio  door  and  looked  out.  lie  met  O'Uourko 
laco  to  (iicc. 

"  Well,  mc  boy,"  s.'ild  the  latter,  wringing 
niako's  hand  heartily,  "  lieio  I  am  again.  I 
Iiavoti't  disappointed  ye,  have  I  ?  Oil,  by  the 
powers  !  but  isn't  it  the  hard  time  I've  Lad  ! 
Sure  it's  nieself  that's  been  going  to  give  up 
intirely,  over  and  over  agin.  Still  I'or  all, 
mind  ye,  it  wasn't  tlic  tiisiire,  or  tlio  cata- 
comb.',  at  all,  at  all.  The  difriciiltica  arose 
merely  iu  the  attimpt  to  get  a  fiithuld,  and 
juring  the  failure  that  waa  conscfpiint  from 
the  obelioosenia.s  of  the  people.  Hut  I'll 
tell  ye  all.  Have  ye  iver  a  drop  of  whiskey, 
thin  ?  " 

Blake  hurriec.  'o  his  closet  and  brought 
forth  a  bottle,  which  ho  placed  by  the  side  of 
II  decanter  of  wine,  that  already  stood  upon 
uie  table,  and  chen  produced  a  glass. 

"  I  have  cognac,"  said  he,  "  but  I'm  sorry 
to  say  I  have  no  whiskey." 

O'Kjurke  gave  a  sigh. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  ho,  "  it's  no  bad  sub- 
8tichoot,"  and,  with  these  word:!,  he  poured 
out  some  cognac.  Then  he  flung  himself  into 
an  casy-ehair,  and,  holding  the  glass  in  his 
hand,  sat  leaning  back  for  a  few  minutes  sip. 
ping  the  cognac.  At  length  he  put  down  the 
glass,  and  then  drew  a  long  breatli  of  satis- 
faction. 

"  Well,  Blake,  me  boy,''  said  he,  "  I'll  tell 
yo  all  about  it  from  beginning  to  ind;  all  the 
whirrul  and  chumuit  of  ivints  that  have  hap. 
pencd  juring  my  absinee,  and  ye'll  discerrun 
for  yersclf  the  difficulties  I've  had  to  contiud 
with. 

"  In  the  first  place,  ye'll  be  surprised  to 
hear  that  all  this  time  thus  far  has  been  con- 
fihumed,  not  in  any  subterranean  labor,  but 
simply  in  the  attimpt  to  got  a  house.  Ye  see, 
it  isn't  ivery  house  that'd  do.  There  were 
only  a  certain  number  in  the  immajiate  vicin- 
ity of  the  monastery  of  San  Antonio.  It 
would  have  been  quite  useless  to  git  a  house 
any  distance  away.  Now,  ye  know,  the  mon- 
astery is  on  the  Via  del  Conti,  and  the  pas- 
Hago  of  A'oysius  lakes  its  beginning  from  the 
west  wall — in  the  very  middle  of  that  wall, 
according  to  the  description  of  me  own  cous- 
in Malachi,  monk  that  was,  and  is  now  in 
glory.  This  passage,  as  I  have  all  along  in- 
farrumcd  you,  runs  in  a  i;ireetion  which  must 
lead  to  the  Roman  Forum — now  tlie  Cami)o 


Vacehino — and  the  Palatine  Hill.  Of  eoorse, 
any  house  I'd  be  after  rinting  must  bo  situ, 
ated  in  BiilHeicnt  proximity  to  the  monastery 
to  allow  of  the  possebelty  of  engineering  u 
way  to  the  passage  of  Aloysius  ;  or,  if  I  could 
got  a  house  on  the  ground,  in  the  rear  of  the 
monastery,  it  would  do  as  well,  for  thin  the 
passage  could  be  tackled  more  directly.  Well, 
this,  of  eoorse,  was  the  thing  I  tried  to  do, 
but  it  was  the  very  thing  I  couldn't  do.  I 
could  pit  upper  rooms  plinty  enough,  but  the 
lower  Uure  was  the  thing  I  eotddn't  git.  Thin, 
there  was  sieh  indifTerince,  sieh  a  lack  of  in- 
terprlse,  sieh  churrulishniss  and  shupiueness, 
that  over  and  over  I  filt  inclined  to  throw  up 
the  kyards  and  returriin  home  in  dispair. 

"  Ilowandiver,  sieh  a  prize  as  the  one  I  had 
before  mo  was  not  one  that  was  to  bo  given 
up,  merely  because  there  happinod  to  be  a  few 
obstacles  at  the  outsit,  ispicially  when  these 
obstacles  arose  from  nothing  more  than  the 
obchuscness  anil  sluipinencss  of  min,  and 
other  tilings  which  could  easily  be  conlinded 
with.  So  I  kipt  on ;  and,  though  week  after 
week  passed  away  without  any  thing  being 
done,  yet  I  persevered,  and  finally  niit  with 
an  opporehunity,  which  I  at  once  seized  a 
holt  of.  This  opporehunity  was  a  largo 
house,  which  was  one  of  the  foulest,  and 
vilest,  and  most  dilapidated  in  the  city.  For 
this  cause  I  had  nlver  so  much  as  given  it  a 
thought ;  for,  ye  ace,  my  idea  was  to  hiro  the 
lower  story  of  some  house,  which  might  pass 
for  a  shuitable  risidenee  for  a  man  in  moder. 
ate  circumstances,  who  was  indivoring  to  livo 
economieally.  Now,  the  momint  that  I  saw 
this  old  rack  of  a  house,  the  thought  came  to 
me  that  this  would  be  the  place.  I  need  not 
take  it  as  a  lodger,  but  I  might  rint  the  intire 
structure.  It  was  a  large,  quadrangular  idi- 
fice,  and  was  crammed  and  crowded  with  the 
lowest  class  of  the  population.  I  wint  to  the 
ouner,  and  riprisinted  that  I  wanted  to  insti- 
choot  a  manufactory  there  of  a  new  kind  of 
maecaroni,  and  ofl'errcd  to  rint  the  whole 
building.  There  was  no  difficulty  about  that. 
I  olforred  him  a  good  price,  and  he  accepted 
it;  but  the  realdifficuity  was  with  the  tinints, 
who  were  unwilling  to  go.  Ilowandiver,  they 
were  all  poor,  and  tinints  by  the  week,  and  a 
few  haiocchi  apiece  sufficed  to  make  thim,  one 
and  all,  leave  very  contintcdiy.  So  at  last 
the  big  house  came  imply  into  my  hands,  but 
the  delay  iu  gitting  the  tinints  all  moved  out 
was  so  great,  that  it  w^as  not  till  a  week  ago 


«4 


AX   OPEN  QUESTION'. 


,    n 


'I 


i 


tliat  I  was  able  to  inter  in  and  taliti  forramcl 
possission. 

"  Well,  sir,  there  nivcr  was  a  luckier 
chance  iu  the  wide  wurruld  than  the  one  that 
put  me  in  possission  of  that  particular  house. 
It  was  four  stories  high.  It  was  at  least  five 
cinturies  old,  and  maybe  tin.  The  walls  were 
solid  and  massive ;  the  windows  small  and 
iron-grated;  on  the  lower  stones  the  win- 
dows worn't  open  to  the  street  at  all,  but 
looked  out  on  the  court-yard.  Only  the 
upper  stories  had  windows  on  the  street,  and 
these  were  barred  and  grated,  aa  I  said.  It 
was  quadrangular  in  shape;  and  the  dure  was 
of  massive  oak,  studded  with  iron  spikes.  I 
had  a  bit  of  a  hinge  put  on  one  the  first  day, 
and  that's  about  the  ixtiiik  of  the  repairs 
which  I've  put  on  it  thus  far.  Ye  see,  whin 
I  open  my  maccaroni  manufacture,  the  re- 
pairs can  be  iularged.  'Deed,  thin,  but  re- 
pairs are  needed ;  the  roof  is  open  in  half  a 
■dozen  places,  and  the  plaster  everywhere  is 
tumbling  from  the  walls.  But  the  massive- 
ness  of  the  house  is  wonderful.  It  was  un- 
doubtedly built  in  the  old  days  of  faction 
and  street-fighting;  perhaps  in  the  days  of 
Boniface  VIII.,  or  maybe  in  those  of  old 
Ilildobriiud,  or  maybe  as  far  back  as  the 
times  of  Theodora  and  Marozia.  Ye  may  de- 
pind  upon  it,  I  was  the  happy  man  tliat  day 
us  I  saw  this. 

"  Thin,  apart  from  this,  the  situation  was 
the  very  one  that  was  best  shuited  to  my 
purposes.  In  the  seclusion  of  this  obscure 
street,  one's  operations  need  not  be  inquired 
into,  nor  need  they  be  so  carefully  gyarded  as 
t'..ey  would  have  to  be  ilscwhcre.  Thin,  it  lies 
in  the  rear  of  the  Monastery  of  San  Antonio. 
Take  a  point  iu  the  middle  of  the  west  wall 
of  the  monastery  as  one  point,  and  thin  take 
the  Arch  of  Titud  as  another,  and  between 
these  two  points  draw  a  straight  line.  Well, 
the  north  wall  of  this  old  house  won't  be 
more'n  a  few  feet  distant  from  that  line. 
What  d'ye  think  of  that,  now  ?  Wasn't  that 
luck  ?     Wasn't  that  worth  waiting  for  ? 

"  Well,  of  course,  my  only  idea  was  to 
examine  without  delay  the  lower  portions  of 
the  house.  So,  first  of  all,  I  had  the  bit  of  t>, 
hinge  put  on,  and  thin  had  the  bolts  fixed  so 
that  I  could  shut  the  dures  and  bar  thim. 
Wliin  I  did  that,  I  could  defy  the  w.  -ruld. 
Before  I  did  so,  I  had  a  bit  of  a  pick  brought 
in,  and  that  was  all,  barriu'  lights,  and  a  bit 
of  food  and  ('rink.    Ye  may  depiud  upon  it, 


when  I  shut  mesilf  inside,  thin  I  felt  safe.  It 
was  a  fortress.  No  one  could  spy  mo,  no  one 
could  assail  me.  The  walla,  of  achupindous 
thickness,  enclosed  me ;  and,  if  the  old  roof 
was  a  bit  dilapidated,  sorra  a  bit  of  differeneo 
did  that  make, 

"  Well,  now,  you  must  know  this,  and  it's 
a  great  thing  in  our  favor.  The  Monastery 
of  San  Antonio  is  on  ground  that  is  a  little 
higher  than  that  on  which  the  old  house 
stands ;  about  six  or  eight  feet,  no  more. 
That  was  another  thing  I  deticted  at  a  glance, 
and,  of  course,  congratulated  mesilf  about  it. 
For  why?  Why,  ye  see,  the  cellars  of  the 
house  would  then  be  thereabouts  on  some- 
where the  same  gineral  livil  with  the  livil  of 
the  lowermost  vaults  of  San  Antonio.  Of 
course,  my  first  visit  was  made  to  the  cellars. 
They  were  very  spacious,  and  ran  all  under- 
neath the  house.  I  merely  wished  to  see 
their  ixtint,  and  also  to  test  the  rock,  to  try 
how  hard  it  was,  whether  it  would  yield  easily 
to  the  pick,  or  whether  I  would  have  to  make 
use  of  gunpowder.  If  it  was  the  same  rock 
as  that  in  which  the  Ciitacomba  are  ixcavated, 
of  course  I  knew  I  .should  have  no  diffi- 
culty ;  but,  unfortunately,  I  couldn't  be  sure 
of  that ;  for  there's  another  stratum  of  roclc 
that  lies  under  Rome,  of  a  very  different  char- 
acter. This  is  travertine,  a  stone  rC  wonder- 
ful  nature,  aj  porous  as  a  sponge,  looLing  like 
the  petrifactions  cf  innumerable  liLtle  twigs, 
yet  as  hard  as  flint;  and,  with  stone  like  thiit, 
I  knew  I  couldn't  do  any  thing.  I  also  wished 
to  pound  upon  the  walls  of  the  celK-xr  to  find 
out  if  there  might  be  ixcavations  or  hi,llows 
beyond,  on  the  south  side;  for,  if  there  was 
any  such,  it  would  show  me  that  the  Cata- 
combs were  near. 

"  Well,  ye  may  be  sure  I  wint  to  the  south 
wall  first  and  forrumost.  I  wasn't  going  to 
waste  any  time  on  other  places.  Well,  the 
south  wall  was  all  built  up  of  stunes  of  dif- 
ferent sizes.  This  surprised  me  a  little  at 
first,  for  I  had  a  vague  idea  that  I'd  find  solid 
rock,  but  such  an  idea  was  shuperlatively 
absurrud,  for  what  could  they  do  without  a 
regular,  firrumly-built  foundation  ?  Well,  I 
po'inded  along  this  wall  all  the  whole  length 
without  obtaining  any  satisfactory  results, 
for  there  was  the  same  sound  all  along,  and, 
if  there  waa  any  hollow  behind,  it  didn't  show 
itself  that  way.  My  chief  hope  was  that  I 
might  break  away  the  wall  and  git  to  the  soft 
Catacomb  rock ;  my  dread  waa  that  I  should 


HBBt-T 


felt  safe.  It 
y  mo,  no  ono 
schupindous 
the  old  roof 
of  difference 


t 


ii\ 


this,  and  it's 
le  Monastery 
lat  is  a  little 
e  old  house 
3t,  no  more. 
1  at  a  glance, 
silf  about  it. 
Bllars  of  the 
Its  on  Homc- 
i  the  livil  of 
Lntonio.     Of 

0  the  cellars. 
,n  all  uudcr- 
ished   to   see 

1  rock,  to  try 
d  yield  easily 
liave  to  make 
le  same  rock 
re  ixcavated, 
nvo  no  diffi- 
idn't  be  sure 
Uura  of  rock 
Ifferent  char- 
le  rf  wonder- 
,  looLing  like 

little  twigs, 
one  like  that, 
I  also  wished 
c(AhT  to  find 
IS  or  hollows 
if  there  was 
at  the  Cata- 


;  to  the  south 
in't  going  to 
.  Well,  the 
itones  of  dif- 
e  a  little  at 
I'd  find  solid 
luperlatively 
lo  without  a 
n?  Well,  I 
ivhole  length 
tory  results, 
U  along,  and, 
t  didn't  show 
5  was  that  I 
;it  to  the  soft 
,hat  I  should 


'    :       if 


•  . 

) 

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V---'-.  -. 

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IP              «-  f    ' '    ^B    - 

'*'  .                                    ' 

Pi 


i  ;i   i 


THE   RETURN   OF  AXOTUER   MESSENGER. 


95 


3 


p4 


find  the  hard  travertine,  or  the  soft  sand. 
Under  Rome  there  are  these  three  strata : 
the  hard  travertine,  such  as  is  used  for  build- 
ing purposes ;  th6  soft  sand,  out  of  which  the 
Roraan  cemiut  is  made  ;  and  the  soft  sand- 
stone, where  the  excavations  were  made  for 
the  Catacombs.  It  is  only  where  this  last 
occurs  that  the  Catacombs  exist,  aad  so  all 
my  hopes  depiiidid  upon  the  kind  of  ground 
that  I  might  incounter  bi;hinu  the  wall. 

"I  wint  to  work  vigorously.  The  stones 
began  to  give  way  after  a  few  blows  of  the 
piclc  I  got  out  the  small  ones  first,  and  thin 
wint  to  work  at  a  good-sized  bit  of  a  rock, 
and,  afther  about  two  hours'  hard  work,  I 
fetched  it  out  on  the  flure. 

"  Well,  there  was  plasther  behind  that 
again,  and  other  stones,  so  I  had  to  enlarge 
the  breach  to  an  ixtint  comminsurato  with 
what  now  appeared  the  evidint  thickness  of 
the  wall.  It  was  the  found.ation-wall,  ye'U 
iinderatand,  of  an  idifiee,  built  in  the  uiiddle 
ages,  whin  ivery  house  had  to  be  a  man's  cas- 
tle, and  this  was  as  strong  as  a  castle.  I 
worked  all  night  long,  and  still  the  more  rocks 
I  pulled  out  the  more  there  were  behind.  By 
morrunin'  I  had  a  hole  six  feet  wide  and  six 
feet  deep,  and  still  there  were  no  signs  of  any 
ind.  Well,  I  had  to  leave  off  and  seek  some 
repose.  I  slipt,  risted,  and  rcfrished  mesilf 
all  that  day,  and  on  the  following  night  re- 
turruned  to  ray  work.  I  had  worked  out  anoth- 
er big  stone  that  lay  at  the  ind  of  my  ixcava- 
tion.  It  rolled  down  the  slanting  line  of  the 
rubbish  that  Lay  in  the  hole,  and  it  was  a 
wonder  it  didn't  take  me  with  it.  As  it  left 
its  place,  I  discorruned  something  dark.  I 
rushed  forward,  and  held  my  light  far  in.  It 
was  an  opening.  I  thrust  ray  arrum  forward. 
I  could  feel  that  I  had  reached  the  outside  of 
the  foundation-wall,  and  that  beyond  this  there 
was  imptiniss. 

"  Tare  and  ages,  Blake !  but  J  was  the 
woniierful  raar  ■•*,  that  moraint.  I  fell  to 
trimbling  all  o.".  Me  hand  shuk  to  that 
ixtiiit  that  I  had  to  leave  down  the  light  on 
the  (lure,  and  stand  still,  panting  and  suffo- 
cating, with  me  eyes  fixed  on  that  same.  Me 
head  seemed  an  impty  as  that  imptincss  be- 
yond, and  inside  of  me  skull  me  brain  wint 
round  in  a  wild  whurrul,  and  I  was  for  a  few 
tnomints  rejucod  to  a  stato  of  prostration  so 
ixtreme  that  I  couldn't  rezhurac  me  work  for 
ivor  80  long.  Howandiver,  I  picked  up  mo 
■oatterod  eiuaes  at  last,  and  me  lamp  too,  and 


thin,  rcturruning  to  the  hole  I'd  made,  I  tried 
to  enlarge  it.  It  was  rather  dangerous  work 
just  thin — and,  indeed,  it  had  been  so  for 
some  time  past — but  I  was  too  ixcitcd  to 
think  much  about  it,  and  so  I.  succeeded,  af- 
ter a  half-hour's  desperate  work,  in  making  a 
hole  large  enough  for  me  to  put  me  head  and 
shoulders  through.  By  that  time  I  had  got 
over  me  ixeiteniiiit  altogether,  and  I  wasn't 
going  to  let  mesilf  be  thrown  oIF  ine  gyard 
agin.  So  I  tuk  me  bit  of  a  light  and  stuck  it 
through,  and  thin  pushed  mc  head  and  shoul- 
ders iu  after  it.  Well,  my  first  feeling  was 
one  of  deep  disappointmint,  but  this  was  in- 
stantly succeeded  by  one  of  wonder.  The 
imptiuess  that  lay  there  was  only  of  a  small 
ixlint.  It  was  a  hollow  cavity,  that  waj} 
all;  horizontal ;  about  six  feet  long,  and  three 
feet  wide,  and  two  feet  high.  Beyond  this, 
on  the  other  side,  was  the  rock,  which  here 
was  white  and  smooth.  I  say  I  first  felt  dis- 
appointmint, but,  after  about  seventeen  sec- 
onds, as  I  said,  I  was  filled  with  wonder. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  it  was  a  grave, 
and,  as  I  believed  firrumly,  a  Catacomb  giave. 
But  how  had  it  come  here  ?  I  accounted  for 
it  at  once  in  the  easiest  way  possible.  The 
builders  of  this  house,  in  digging  for  a  cellar, 
had  come  to  this  grave,  and  perhaps  even  to 
one  of  the  passage-ways  with  many  other 
graves.  They,  no  doubt,  considered  them  as 
the  graves  of  the  old  pagans,  and  scattered 
their  ashes  to  the  winds;  or,  if  any  one  of 
them  could  read — or,  if  they  sint  for  a  priest 
to  decipher  the  tablets,  they,  no  doubt,  saw 
that  they  were  Christian  dead,  and  had  tliim, 
all  riverintially  removed  to  another  place,  af- 
ter which  they  continued  their  work  of  build- 
ing. That  was  the  way  I  accounted  for  it  ia 
my  own  mind  during  the  few  rainutea  that  I 
lay  there  with  me  head  and  shoulders  poked, 
through,  looking  at  this  impty  sipulchre. 

"  Well,  as  I  lay  there,  staring  all  around, 
me  attintion  was  suddenly  arrested  by  tho 
great  difference  that  there  was  between  the 
stone  that  faced  me,  forming  the  back  of  the 
sepulchre,  and  the  rock  in  which  the  tomb 
was  cut ;  for  the  rock  was  brown  sandstone, 
quite  rough,  too,  with  the  marks  of  the  chisel 
plainly  discernible;  while  the  stone  at  the 
rear  was  white  and  smooth,  with  no  chisel- 
marks  in  particular.  A  closer  look  showed 
me  that  it  was  marble,  and  that  it  was  joined 
on  from  another  side  which  lay  outside  of 
this  where  I  was.     In  a  momiut  I  compre- 


i    I 


96 


AN    OPEN   QUESTION 


IM 


hindid  the  facts  of  the  case.  Tlic  ixcavations 
had  been  cut  in  the  rear  of  the  grave ;  that 
slab  showed  the  front  of  it.  If  so,  there 
must  be  a  passage-way  on  the  other  side. 
The  moinint  that  this  thought  came  to  me,  I 
scrambled  back,  seized  tlie  pick,  rcturruncd 
once  more  to  the  hole,  au''  thin  dealt  a  dozen 
punches  wiih  all  me  fc  .e  at  the  marble.  I 
was  right.  The  maro'o  yielded;  a  few  more 
blows  forced  it  farther  away  ;  and,  fiuallj', 
with  a  (lull  thud  and  a  low  crash,  fell  in.  In 
another  ninit  I  was  in  after  it,  with  me 
lamp  in  me  hand,  looking  around  mo  with 
wild  eyes.  And  oh,  but  wasn't  that  the  mo- 
mint  of  all  momints !  Holy  saints  and  an- 
gels 1  but  wasn't  I  the  frantic  and  delirious 
man!  It  was  a  passage-way;  with  all  the 
marks,  and  signs,  and  appurtenances,  which 
characterize  the  passages  of  the  Catacombs ; 
with  the  slabs,  and  the  inscriptions,  and  the 
tiers  of  tombs,  and  the  bluck  darkness  in  the 
distance,  into  which  the  faint  lamp-light  only 
struggled  a  few  feet  or  so,  and  thin  died  out. 
And,  oh,  but  I  was  fairly  overwhellumcd  once 
more,  so  that  I  just  sat  down  tliero  and  bint 
mo  head  down,  and  cried  like  a  child  1 " 

O'Rourke  hastily  poured  out  another  glass 
of  cognac,  which  he  gulped  down,  and  then 
went  on  : 

"  Well,  there  I  was,  in  the  Catacombs,  in 
the  very  part  of  the  Catacombs  I  wished  to 
bo,  that  is,  the  Palatine  Catacombs,  and  in 
the  rear,  that  is  toward  the  west  of  the  Mon- 
astery of  San  Antonio.  Still,  the  question  re- 
mained— what  the  passage  was.  No  doubt, 
as  I  had  all  along  considered,  there  were  nu- 
merous passage-ways  here,  just  like  the  one 
which  I  wished  to  find.  I  cculd  not  be  satis- 
fied till  I  had  learned  something  more  about 
this.  So  I  tuk  me  lamp,  and  I  started  to 
walk  along  on  mo  left,  for  I  knew  that  the 
Jlonastery  of  San  Antonio  lay  in  that  qtiartcr. 
Well,  as  I  wint  along,  I  saw  nothing  but  the 
slabs  that  covered  the  tombs  and  bore  the 
usual  inscriptions.  They  were  familiar 
enough  to  me,  for  I'd  seen  the  likes  of  tliim 
over  and  over  in  tlie  Lapidarian  Gallery,  or 
the  Vatican  Museum.  So  I  strolled  along 
without  paying  any  special  attintion  to  any 
of  thim.  I  was  surprised  to  find  that  there 
were  no  transverse  passages,  and  thought  this 
was  a  good  sign.  At  length,  I  began  to  won- 
der at  the  distance  I  had  gone,  and  to  fear 
that,  after  all,  this  was  the  wrong  passage-way, 
wbin  suddenly  I  found  mcsilf  brought  up  full 


in  front  of  a  wall.  Tho  ind  was  walled  up. 
I  could  go  no  farther.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  it.  This  was  the  Monastery  of  San 
Antonio;  this  was,  injubitably,  the  intrance 
into  the  vault — walled  up — and  this  was  most 
certainly  the  Passage  of  Aloysius. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

ULAKK  TAKES  LEAVE  OF  HIS  FRIENDS. 

DuRisa  this  account  of  himself,  O'Rourko 
had  watched  Blake  very  intently,  to  see  the 
efl'ect  produced  upon  him.  If  he  had  wished 
to  create  an  excitement  in  lilake'a  mind,  he 
certainly  had  every  reason  to  feel  gratified. 
Already,  even  before  he  had  come,  Blake's 
tumult  of  hopes  and  fears  had  been  excessive ; 
and  now,  during  this  singular  narrative,  his 
emotion  reached  its  climax ;  so  great  was  it, 
in  fact,  that  it  seemed  to  deprive  him  of  the 
power  of  speech ;  and  he  had  sat  there  spell- 
bound and  mute.  Not  one  word  did  he  say 
all  this  time ;  but,  by  his  rigid  attitude,  his 
clasped  hands,  his  heightened  color,  his  glis- 
tening eyes,  he  plainly  showed  how  intense 
was  the  excitement  within  him.  Yet  tho 
story  of  O'Rourke  had  been  so  narrated  that 
he  had  all  along  been  kept  in  suspense,  and 
therefore  his  attention  had  been  quickened, 
and  his  excitement  increased,  all  through,  un- 
til finally  it  reached  its  climax  at  the  end, 
when  O'Rourke  came  to  the  convincing  proof, 
and  the  plain  declaration,  that  he  had  dis- 
covered and  traversed'the  passage  of  Aloy- 
sius. 

"  By  Heaven  I  "  he  burst  forth  ;  "  I  swear, 
O'Rourke,  all  this  seems  almost  incredible." 

O'Rourke  smiled. 

"  I've  pot  something,"  said  he,  "  that'll 
settle  the  doubts  of  any  man.     Look  here." 

And  be  slowly  produced  from  his  pocket 
a  rosary.  It  was  old,  and  stained,  and  dis- 
colored. It  seemed  as  though  it  had  been  ex- 
posed to  damp  for  a  long  time. 

"  What's  that  ?"  asked  Blake. 

"  Well,  that's  more  than  I  can  say,  for 
certain ;  but  I'll  tell  you  how  I  got  it.  I'vp 
told  ye  how  I  got  to  the  ind  of  the  passnp'.— 
by  the  Monastery  of  San  Antonio.  '.Veil,  I 
stayed  therr  a  few  moments,  :.nd  thin  rc- 
turruncd to  tho  place  of  interrance.  Arriving 
there,  I  did  not  feel  inclined  to  leave  just  yit, 
so  I  tuk  to  wajidcriu'  along,  thinking  that  I 


BLxVKE  TAKES  LEAVE   OF  HIS  FRIENDS. 


8* 


might  go  at  least  as  far  as  Bomo  transverse 
passage,  especially  as  this  had  been  min- 
lioned  in  the  manuscript.  So  I  walked  on, 
and,  at  longib,  nfttir  I  had  gone  about  as  far 
from  the  interrance  as  it  was  from  that  spot 
to  tho  monastery,  I  found  another  passage 
crossing,  and,  looking  forward,  I  could  see 
where  the  passage  of  Aloysius  still  ran  on, 
losing  itself  in  tho  darkness.  Well,  I  wasn't 
prepared  for  an  ixploration,  so  I  felt  satisfied, 
and  returruned  in  a  leisurely  way.  This  fust 
transverse  passage  corroborated,  as  you  see, 
tlie  manuscript  story,  together  with  the  story 
of  me  cousin  Malachi,  in  ivery  particular. 
And  now,  as  I  walked  back,  I  noticed  the 
slabs  with  the  inscriptions.  I  stopped  to 
look  at  a  few.  I  noticed  the  mixture  of  let- 
ters which  Aloysius  mintioned ;  that  is  to 
say,  Greek  characters  were  mingled  with 
Latin,  and  Greek  names  and  words  were 
spelled  with  Latin  letters.  It  was  this  that 
confused  Aloysius,  no  doubt,  vho  couldn't 
have  known  a  word  of  GreeL,  nor  even  the 
Greek  alphabet.  Most  of  these  slabs  were 
dingy  and  grimy,  and  the  letters  were  not 
very  deep  cut  or  well  formed.  At  length  I 
noticed  one  that  was  less  dingy.  It  was  the 
second  from  the  floor,  in  a  tier  of  four,  and 
the  letters  were  deep  cut  and  well  made.  I 
stopped,  and  held  up  my  lamp  to  read  it. 
Well,  there  I  saw  the  usual  monogram,  which 
I  described  to  you  before,  ye  remember,  and 
under  it  I  read  these  words : 

"  '  Til  Chrkto.  Pax.  Anfonino  Tinperatore, 
Marius  miles  sanguincm  effudit  pro  Chrlsto, 
Dormil  in  Face.'' " 

"By  Jovel"  cried  Blake.  "You  didn't 
though,  did  you  ?  Why,  that's  the  very  in- 
scription that  Aloysius  mentioned  1 " 

"The  very  inscription,"  said  O'Rourke, 
solemnly.  "  You  may  imagine  how  I  felt.  I 
can't  describe.  Anyhow,  there  I  stood,  lean- 
ing forward,  and  reading  this,  whin  suddenly 
I  trod  on  something  that  gave  a  dull  rattle 
like  gravel.  I  stooped  down,  and  saw  a  lot 
of  these  beads.  Some  were  lying  in  a  line, 
others  had  been  thrust  aside  by  my  feet.  The 
string  that  had  fastened  them  together  was 
gone.  It  had,  no  doubt,  mouldered  away. 
Now,  whose  could  that  have  been  ?  Not  the 
rosary  of  an  ancient  Christian,  for  tlicy  didn't 
have  thim.  Not  the  rosary  of  mo  cousin  Mal- 
achi, for  the  string  couldn't  have  rotted  away 
in  so  short  a  time ;  it  must,  thin,  have  been 
7 


the  rosary  of  the  monk  Aloysius,  or  of  tho 
poor  Onofrio;  one  of  those  two,  no  doubt; 
and,  perhaps,  whin  they  stopped  to  read  this 
epitaph,  it  fell  from  the  one  it  belonged  to 
without  its  fall  being  noticed.  I  picked  up 
all  the  beads,  and  I  put  a  bit  of  a  string 
through  thim,  for  convenience'  sake." 

Blake  took  the  rosary,  and  looked  at  it 
with  indescribable  interest. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  it  must  be,  as  you  say, 
the  rosary  of  Aloysius." 

"  Of  course,  it  must,"  said  O'Rourke. 

"  It's  perfectly  amazing,"  said  Blake. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  O'Rourke,  "iVi  all 
perfectly  natural.  The  only  wonderful  thing 
about  it  all  is,  that  I  should  have  been  lucky 
enough  to  break  into  the  grave.  If  I  had 
come  to  the  solid  stone,  I  might  have  had  a 
month's  hard  work,  at  least.  But,  whin  once 
I  got  inside,  it  was  quite  natural,  whin  you 
think  of  it,  that  I  should  find  this  very  pas- 
sage of  Aloysius." 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Blake,  still  looking 
at  the  beads. 

O'Rourke  now  poured  out  another  glass 
of  cognac. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  as  he  sipped  it,  "  what 
are  ye  going  to  do  ?    Are  ye  ready  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Blake,  "not  only  ready, 
but  eager.  I'm  ready  to  start  off  now,  thia 
very  instant." 

"  That's  right,"  said  O'Rourke  ;  "  and  ye 
haven't  told  any  one  ? " 

"Not  a  sou! — of  course  not." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  know ;  a  man  sometimes 
has  connections  that  it's  difficult  to  keep  a 
secret  from.  Ye're  a  young  man,  ye  know ; 
handsome,  and  mighty  taking  with  the  ladies ; 
and,  if  ye  had  one  in  tow,  she  might  see  in 
yer  face  that  ye  were  after  something,  and 
worrum  it  out  of  ye." 

"  Oh,  no;  there's  nothing  of  that  kind  go- 
ing  on,"  said  Blake,  with  a  mournful  thought 
of  Inez. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  for  ic  would 
spoil  all,"  said  O'Rourke.  "  At  any  rate,  hero 
I  am,  and  here  you  are,  and  every  thing's 
ready.  We  needn't  leave  this  moment,  but 
we'd  better  start  as  soon  as  we  can.  AVill  ye 
be  able  to  go  by  the  morruning's  train  ?  " 

"  Yes."  ' 

"Any  letters  ye  have  to  wiite  yo  can 
write  to-night,  and  mail  as  wo  go  to  the  sta- 
tion,  only  ye  won't  say  any  thing  about  what 
it  is  ye're  after  ?  " 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION, 


"  Of  course  not.  I  Bball  simply  write  one 
or  two  letters,  nuJ  mention  that  I  am  going 
out  of  town  on  business  for  a  month  or 
flo." 

"  That's  right,"  said  O'Rourke,  with  evi- 
dent gratification.  "  Thin,  if  nothing  does 
come  of  it,  ye  won't  git  laughed  at.  We'll 
keep  our  own  secret,  and,  if  we  fail,  there'll 
be  no  harrum  done  at  all,  at  all.  I'm  glad 
ye  kept  the  secret  so  well.  It  shows  that 
myjudgraint  about  ye  was  right,  and  I'm  glad 
of  it.  A  companion  and  assistant  I  must 
have,  and  I'd  rather  have  you  than  anybody 
I  know  of.  Ye'll  be  not  only  a  fellow-laborer 
and  business  partner,  but  also  a  friend  in 
case  of  need.  I  couldn't  get  on  alone  at  all, 
at  all.  I'm  not  timid,  and  I'm  not  what  you'd 
call  shuperstitious,  but  working  alone  down 
there  m  a,  place  like  that  is  a  test  of  a  man's 
nerruves  that  I  don't  care  to  impose  on  me- 
Eilf.  Besides,  apart  from  that,  there's  worruk 
required  down  there  that  one  man  wouldn't 
be  enough  for.  We've  got  to  take  ropes,  and 
ladders,  and  lights,  and,  in  the  eviut  of  suc- 
cess, we've  got  to  carry  some  store  of  articles 
tliat'll  be  likely  to  have  some  weight  in  thira 
for  a  long  distance.  There  ought  to  be  enough 
down  there  to  satisfy  two  min,  or,  for  that 
matter,  two  thousand,  so  I  don't  objict  to  go 
halves  with  ye  for  the  plisure  of  yer  com- 
pany." 

"Well,  old  fellow,  come  now,  it  don't 
seem  hardly  fair  to  you  to  come  in  for  so 
much,  when  you  have  had  all  the  trouble 
thus  far,  and  the  secret  is  yours,  too." 

"  Pooh !  we  needn't  talk  now  about  the 
division,"  said  O'Rourke  ;  "  that's  counting 
the  chickens  before  they're  hatched  in  the 
worrust  way.  It  may  be  a  total  failure,  so  it 
may.  Ye'd  bcFt  be  after  trying  to  prepare 
yersilf  for  any  disappointmint." 

"  Oh,  well,  of  course  I  shall  do  that,  you 
know." 

"  And  ye'll  have  time  to  write  to  yer 
friends." 

"Yes." 

"How  many  letters  did  ye  say  ye'd  have 
to  write?" 

"Two." 

"  Two '!  Ilm !  and  ye'll  have  to  be  ready 
to  start  at  five,  and  it's  now  half-past  one,'' 
■aid  O'Rourke.  "  I  must  be  after  going." 

"  Half-past  one  ! "  said  Blake,  in  surprise. 
"Why,  so  it  is;  I  Iiad  no  idea  it  was  so 
iBte." 


"Well,  I'll  be  going,"  said  O'Rourke; 
"  so  ye'll  write  yer  letters  at  once  to  yer  two 
friends?    I  hope  they're  not  both  ladies?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  only  one  of  them  is  a  lady." 

"And  ye'll  be  very  guarded,  so  as  not  to 
let  on  what  ye're  after  doing  ?  "  said  O'Rourke, 
cautiously. 

"  Oh,  you  may  trust  mo  for  that." 

"  Well,  I'll  be  going,  and  let  me  advise 
ye  to  try  to  get  some  sleep.  Ye're  too  ex- 
cited, man.  Write  yer  letters,  go  to  bed, 
and  sleep  the  sleep  of  the  just.  Thin  ye'll  be 
better  prepared  for  future  worruk  and  future 
excitemint.  Ye're  altogether  too  flushed,  and 
excited,  and  feverish-looking  just  now." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  I  am  just  a  little  more 
excited  than  usuai,'  said  Blake ;  "  but  it  will 
pass  away  soon  enough." 

"Well,  I'll  be  going,"  said  O'Rourke 
again.  "  I'll  come  here  for  ye  in  the  morrun- 
ing.     Good-night." 

He  wrung  Blake's  hand  with  his  usual 
heartiness,  and  then  left. 

After  his  departure,  Blake  sat  for  some- 
time without  moving.  The  intense  excite- 
ment j-  ,0  which  ho  Lad  been  th-own  by 
O'Rourke's  story  still  affected  him.  His 
heart  beat  fast  and  furious,  and  a  thousand 
dazzling  visions  of  endless  treasures  swept 
before  his  mind.  All  the  accumulated  fancies 
of  the  last  few  days  now  arose  up  together  in 
one  vast  assemblage,  till  his  brain  fairly 
reeled  beneath  their  overmastering  power. 
Ho  was  confounded  by  the  magnitude  of  hia 
own  hopes ;  he  wag  bewildered  by  the  im- 
mensity of  the  treasure  which  O'Rourke  had 
suggested. 

He  sat  motionless  for  about  an  hour, 
when  suddenly  he  started  to  his  feet. 

"This  will  never  do,"  he  murmured;  "I 
must  write  those  letters." 

He  then  went  to  the  table  and  poured  out 
some  cognac,  which  he  drank  off  hurriedly. 
Then  he  procured  writing-materials,  and  Sal 
down  to  write.  But  it  was  a  very  difficult 
task.  His  mind  was  so  full  of  other  things 
that  his  dazzli;ig  thoughts  intruded  them- 
selves into  his  letter,  making  nonsense  of  it. 
Three  or  four  wore  torn  up  and  thrown  aside. 
At  last  he  managed  to  write  out  a  rough 
draft,  full  of  corrections,  and,  after  reading 
this  over,  it  seemed  as  well  as  any  thing  else 
that  ho  could  write  under  (lie  circumstances. 
This,  then,  he  copied  out,  and  what  he  wrote 
was  the  following : 


■^ 


1  O'Rourke; 
ce  to  yer  two 
h  ladies?" 
a  lady." 
so  as  not  to 
lid  O'Rourke, 

hat." 

ct  me  advise 
L'e'ro  too  ex- 
I,  go  to  bed, 

Thin  ye'll  be 
ik  and  future 
0  flushed,  and 
t  now." 

a  little  more 
;  "  but  it  will 


id    O'Eourke 
a  the  morrun- 

ith  his  usual 


.'1  Mi 


sat  for  some- 
tunse  excite- 
a  th-own  by 
1  bim.  liis 
i  a  thousand 
jasurcs  swept 
ulatcd  fancies 
jp  together  in 
brain  fairly 
iering  power. 
5nitude  of  his 
i  by  the  Im- 
O'Rourke  had 


'  -      i  rJ 


Kit    an    hour, 
i  feet, 
lurniured ;  "I 

id  poured  out 
off  hurriedly, 
rials,  and  Sat 
very  difficult 
other  things 
trudcd  thein- 
lonscnsc  of  it. 
thrown  aside, 
out  a  rough 
after  reading 
any  thing  else 
'ircuinstances. 
vliat  he  wrote 


I 


f'.'^ 


BLAKE  TAKES  LEAVE  OF  niS  FRIENDS. 


"  Mr  DEAR  HELLMnTii :  I  intend  to  start 
off  in  the  first  train  to-morrow  on  business. 
I  have  heard  of  a  chance  of  doing  something 
in  the  South,  and  tliinli  it  advisable  to  try. 
I  may  bo  gone  some  time,  and  I  may  return 
in  less  time.  A  party  is  going  to  accompany 
me,  with  whom  I  propose  to  associate  my- 
self. Nothing  may  come  of  this,  but  I  tliink 
it  is  best,  under  the  circumstances,  for  me  to 
try  what  can  be  done.  On  the  whole,  I  think 
it  is  advisable  to  try.  It  is  somewhere  in  the 
South,  and  my  friend  who  goes  with  me  will 
do  what  he  can.  I  may  return  soon,  but  I 
don't  know,  and  if  I  can  do  any  thing  I  may 
not  come  back  for  some  time. 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

"  Basil  Blake." 

On  reading  this  over,  it  struck  Blake  as  a 
most  absurd  production,  but  be  had  already 
made  some  half-dozen  previous  attempts 
which  were  even  worse,  and  so,  in  despair,  he 
concluded  to  let  it  go  as  it  was,  and  not  at- 
tempt another.  It  was  better  to  write  some- 
thing than  to  vanish  suddenly  without  a 
word,  and,  at  any  rate,  in  spite  of  the  ab- 
surdity of  the  note,  it  did  convoy  a  friendly 
notice  to  Ilellmuth  of  his  departure.  So 
Blake  folded  this,  and  addressed  it  to  Kane 
Ilellmulh. 

The  next  letter  was  even  a  greater  task, 
for  the  effort  to  write  the  first  one  had  in 
some  measure  increased  his  confusion  of 
mind,  and  caused  him  to  express  himself  even 
more  awkwardly.  After  over  an  hour  of  hard 
work  he  accomplished  the  following : 

"  My  dear  JIotuer  :  I  have  not  heard  from 
you  for  some  time.  It  is  more  than  a  month 
since  I  have  heard  from  J  ou.  You  infonned 
me  that  you  were  going  to  go  to  London, 
and  I  have  not  heard  from  you  since.  I 
would  go  home  and  see  how  you  are,  for  I 
feel  some  anxiety  about  you,  but  just  now  an 
event  has  occurred  which  seems  to  promise 
something  in  the  way  of  professional  advance- 
ment. If  it  turns  out  well,  I  may  stay  there 
some  time.  If  it  docs  not  turn  out  well,  I 
may  not  stay  there  some  time.  The  party 
who  is  going  there  with  me  is  a  friend  of 
niine,  and  a  professional  friend  of  mine.  He 
thinks  the  chances  there  are  good,  and,  if  so, 
we  shall  both  of  us  probably  remain  there 
some  time  probably.  However,  I  do  not 
know  exactly  how  long  we  shall  stay  there  ; 
some  time,  however,  in  case  of  success  ;  but. 


if  not,  of  course  not.  You  need  not  writo 
unless  you  write  to  mo;  however,  we  may 
not  be  gone  very  long  probably. 

"  A  party  has  mentioned  a  good  prospect 
of  success  in  the  South — a  professional  friend 
of  mine,  and  wo  shall  probably  work  together. 
I  shall  not  probably  write  to  you  again  until 
the  next  time  I  write.  I  think,  therefore, 
that  I  had  better  leave  in  the  first  train  to- 
morrow morning ;  but,  if  we  are  not  success- 
ful, of  course  I  shall  probably  be  back  soon. 
Unless  we  succeed,  I  shall,  however,  not 
make  a  very  long  stay.  However,  that  de- 
pends upon  circumstances  to  some  extent. 

"  You  will  probably  be  surprised,  dear 
mother,  to  learn  that  it  is  my  intention  to 
leave  this  city  by  the  first  train  to-morrow 
morning  for  the  South.  The  reason  of  this 
somewhat  sudden  departure  is  this  :  there  is 
a  professional  friend  of  mine  who  has  beca 
talking  to  me  about  that  country,  and  he 
would  like  me  to  go  with  him.  If  wo  arc 
successful,  we  may  not,  however,  return  long. 
I  have  decided  to  go  in  the  first  train  to- 
morrow morning  to  the  South  with  a  party 
who  is  a  professional  friend  of  mine,  and  wo 
both  hope  to  find  a  place  there  where  we 
shall  be  able  to  do  better  for  ourselves.  In 
case  I  am  successful,  I  hope,  of  course,  that 
you  will  write  me  as  often  as  you  possibly 
can,  for  I  am  beginning  to  feel  quite  anxious 
about  you.  Hoping  soon  to  hear  from  you 
— I  shall,  therefore,  go  and  see  for  myself. 
Write  me  often,  dear  mother,  and  believe  me 
your  affectionate  son, 

"Basil." 

Blako  did  not  read  this  letter  over,  but 
managed  to  fold  it  and  put  it  in  the  envelop, 
lie  had  not  enough  of  consciousness  left  to 
address  it ;  but,  having  gone  that  far,  his 
head  fell  forward  on  the  table,  and  he  slept 
profoundly. 

He  had  not  been  sleeping  long  before  he 
was  roused  by  a  rough  shaking.  He  sprang 
up  and  saw  O'Rourkc,  who  burst  into  a  shout 
of  laughter. 

"  So  this  is  the  way  you  sleep,  is  it  ?  "  he 
cried.  "  Your  head  on  the  table  and  your 
door  open  to  the  public.  So  you've  got  your 
letters  written,  though  one  of  thim  isn't  ad- 
dressed. It  might  go  strayhtcr  if  you  were 
to  address  it." 

Blake  stared  and  stammered,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  he  could  collect  his  scat- 
tered faculties. 


1  i'jl 


100 


AS  OPEN  QUESTION". 


"  Why— why— you  just  left-" 

"Taro  and  oges,  mnn !  why,  it's  five 
o'clock,"  cried  O'JJourke, 

"  Five  o'clock  ! "  gnspcd  Blake. 

"  Yea.  Are  you  ready  ?  Are  your  trunks 
packed  ?  Ye  needn't  take  nior'n  a  valise  with 
ye.  But  ye'U  bo  after  gathering  up  ycr  duds, 
and  not  leaving  thira  scattered  about." 

Upon  this  Blako  hurriedly  went  about 
gathering  some  things  which  he  threw  into  a 
valise.  Those  which  ho  did  not  want  to  take 
with  him  ho  flung  into  a  trunk,  and  then 
locked  it.  Then,  at  0'  Rourke's  suggestion, 
lie  addressed  the  letter  to  his  mother,  and 
stuffed  the  two  in  his  pockets.  Then,  hur- 
riedly attending  to  his  toilet,  he  announced 
that  he  was  ready. 

They  then  went  down.  A  cab  was  ready. 
Blako  told  the  concierge  to  take  care  of  his 
trunk. 

On  their  way  to  tho  station  he  dropped 
his  letters  in  the  post-oflSce  box. 


f    ' 


i    !  ■ 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

DESCENSUS     AVER  Nil 

It  was  Blake's  first  visit  to  Rome.  Under 
any  other  circumstances,  he  would  have  yield- 
ed to  that  manifold  charm  which  the  Eternal 
City  exercises  over  every  mind  that  possesses 
ft  particle  of  enthusiasm,  and  would  have 
found  himself  at  once  examining  the  treas- 
ures which  here,  more  than  in  any  other  part 
of  the  world,  are  stored  up,  and  serve  to  il- 
lustrate and  to  emphasize  the  teachings  of 
antiquity,  of  religion,  and  of  art.  But  the 
circumstancen  were  nnnsual,  and  Blake's 
mind  was  all  preoccupied  with  thoughts  of  a 
treasure  of  a  different  kind.  Already  the 
•wonderful  story  of  Aloysius  had  borne  fruit 
within  his  mind,  as  we  have  'een;  an'',  since 
Ills  departure  from  Paris,  O'Rourke  had  left 
nothing  unsaid  which  could  stimulate  his 
imagination,  or  excite  his  most  sanguine 
hope.  His  efforts  in  this  direction  were  not 
made  by  means  of  any  attempts  at  direct 
description,  but  rather  through  what  might 
be  regarded  as  dry  details  or  formal  statistics. 
He  talked  learnedly  about  the  revenue  of  the 
Roman  Empire ;  of  the  arbitrary  modes  by 
which  the  emperors  extorted  money  ;  of  tho 
wealth  of  Rome,  created  out  of  the  plunder 
of  the  world  ;  of  the  immunity  from  plunder 


which  Rome  itself  had  enjoyed ;  and  of  tho 
oondition  of  the  city  at  tho  time  of  Alaric's 
approach.  lie  made  estimates  of  the  wealth 
of  the  imperial  palace,  and  other  estimates 
of  the  probable  value  of  the  plunder  which 
was  carried  away  by  the  army  of  Alarie.  All 
his  figures  were  in  millions.  He  assumed  a 
confident  air  in  speaking  about  the  treasure 
which  was  concealed  in  the  Catacombs,  and 
sometimes  allowed  himself  to  speculate  ou 
the  value  of  that  treasure. 

By  tiiia  means  he  kept  Blake's  mind  strung 
up  to  tho  proper  degree  of  enthusiasm  and 
exi''  nient;  so  that  at  length,  on  reaching 
Rome,  he  had  no  other  thought  or  desire  than 
to  enter  upon  the  search  without  delay.  In- 
deed, so  eager  was  he,  and  so  much  did  his 
excitement  surpass  that  of  his  friend,  that  he 
would  have  hurried  to  the  spot  at  once,  had 
not  O'Rourke  objected. 

"  Sure  and  this'U  river  do  entirely,"  said 
the  latter.  "  Don't  ye  remimber  the  proverb, 
'  Tho  more  haste,  the  less  speed  ? '  D'ye 
think  we're  in  a  fit  state  to  begin  a  laborious 
task  like  ours,  whin  we're  overwhelmed  by 
fatigue  and  starvation  ?  For  my  part,  I  want 
a  good  dinner,  a  good  night's  rist,  and  a  good 
breakfast.  We  have  also  to  make  jue  prepa- 
rations. I've  got  a  list  of  things  that  we  re- 
quire, that  wo  can't  get  till  to-morrow.  So 
ye'U  have  to  make  up  yer  mind  to  wait.  It's 
lucky  that  yo've  got  me  to  think  for  ye,  so  it 
is." 

Blake's  impatience  rebelled  against  any 
delay,  however  necessary  ;  but  ho  hud  to  yield 
to  the  sober  sense,  the  prudent  counsels,  and 
the  wise  forethought  of  his  companion.  In 
fact,  there  was  no  help  for  it,  as  O'Rourke  had 
the  matter  all  in  his  own  hands,  and  no  move- 
ment could  be  made  without  him.  By  this 
delay  Blake's  impatience  and  excitement  were, 
if  possible,  only  increased.  He  had  scarcely 
slept  since  O'Rovirke's  last  meeting  with  him  ; 
and  this  night  of  waiting,  from  the  very  fact 
that  it  separated  him  from  the  wonders  that 
awaited  him  on  tho  morrow,  afforded  too 
much  stimulus  to  bis  fancy  to  allow  of  any 
thing  like  real  sleep.  His  brain  was  in  a 
whirl,  and  the  fitful  snatches  of  sleep  that  he 
caught  in  tho  intervals  of  his  wild  specula- 
tions were  filled  with  dreams  that  were,  if 
possible,  wilder  still. 

On  tho  following  morning,  Blake  arose  at 
a  very  early  hour,  and  waited  with  much  im- 
patience the  movements  of  O'Rourke.    The 


DESCENSUS  AVERXI! 


101 


tatter,  however,  seenicJ  in  no  hurry  whatever. 
Several  times  Uklic  liiioclicd  at  his  door,  but 
recc.'ved  only  a  half-sleepy  assurance  that  he 
was  not  awake  yet.  It  was  as  late  as  ten 
o'clock  when  O'Rourko  made  his  appearance. 

"  Salve  I  "  said  he  ;  "  in  Room  I  salute  yo 
as  a  Roman.  In  other  tcrrums,  the  top  of 
the  morruning  to  ye." 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Blake.  "Shall  we 
go  now  ?  " 

O'Rourke  looked  at  him  for  a  few  mo- 
ments with  a  reproachful  gaze. 

"  llow  impatient  yo  arc,"  said  he,  "  to  go 
down  to  the  tomb!" 

"Don't  you  think  we're  losing  time?" 
said  Blake,  a  little  disturbed,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, at  an  indescribable  quality  in  U'Rourke's 
tone. 

"  Losing  time,  is  it  ?  Gaining  time,  I  call 
it.  Lot's  not  go  down  there  till  we've  seen 
the  sun  set  in  glory  from  one  of  the  sivin 
hills  of  Room.  For  my  part,  I'm  not  going 
down  till  night — and  there  ye  have  it." 

This  resolution  Blake  found  it  impossible 
to  change ;  so  he  was  compelled  to  smother 
his  impatience  as  best  he  might,  and  wait  for 
O'Rourke  to  lead  the  way. 

All  that  day  O'Rourke  obstinately  refused 
to  say  one  word  about  the  Catacombs,  or  the 
treasure  of  the  Ciesars,  or  the  history  of  the 
middle  ages.  lie  frowned  whenever  Blake  in- 
troduced those  subjects.  He  sought  pertina- 
ciously and  resolutely  to  keep  his  own  mind 
and  that  of  Blake  fixed  upon  other  subjects, 
as  far  removed  from  these  as  possible. 

"  Ye'll  have  enough  of  it  when  ye  get 
down  there.  Sure,  it's  bracing  yer  mind  that 
I  am,  in  preparation  for  the  orjeal  that's  be- 
fore ye." 

O'Rourke  took  him  first  to  the  Pincian 
Hill,  and  insisted  on  showing  him  the  view 
from  that  pi.."e.  After  this  he  dragged  him 
to  the  Villa  B(  rghese,  and  thence  to  the  Coli- 
seum. Here  h  i  pointed  out  the  peculiarities 
of  the  structure,  regarding  it  both  from  an 
archreological  and  an  artistic  point  of  view. 
From  this  place  he  set  out  for  St.  Peter's. 

"  I  wish  ye  to  notice,"  said  he,  "  the 
sharp  contrast  existing  between  each  of  these 
schupindous  monimints.  The  one  is  the  im- 
bliin  of  pagan,  the  other  of  Christian  Room. 
They  are  each  symbols  of  the  instichutions 
out  of  which  they  sprung.  The  one  is  the 
fit  exponint  of  that  material  Room  that  wield- 
ed its  shuprimacy  through   the  mejiura  of 


brute  force ;  the  other  the  exponint  of  that 
spiritual  Room  that  exercised  its  shuprimacy 
through  the  higher  raejium  of  the  abstract, 
tho  immaterial,  the  shupernatural.  And,  as 
this  mighty  fane  is  grander  and  nobler  thin 
tho  pagan  amphitheatre,  so  also  is  tho  Room 
of  tho  popes  a  grander  and  nobler  thing  thin 
the  Room  of  the  impirors." 

To  most  of  these  discourses  Blake  was 
not  in  a  mood  for  listening ;  but  the  manner 
of  O'Rourko  surprised  him  and  impressed 
him.  lie  felt  puzzled,  yet  ho  tried  to  think 
that  it  was  some  eccentric  plan  of  his  friend's 
to  draw  his  mind  out  of  its  too-excited  state, 
and  reduce  it  to  a  common-sense  calm  and 
self-contained  repose.  This  O'Rourke  an- 
nounced as  his  purpose,  and,  as  no  other  ex- 
planation was  forthcoming,  Blake  was  forced 
to  accept  it. 

At  length  the  day  began  to  decline,  and 
O'Rourko  announced  his  intention  of  going 
to  their  place  of  destination. 

The  darkness  came  on  rapidly,  as  is  the 
case  in  this  southern  clime,  and  Blake  no- 
ticed but  little  of  the  scenes  through  which 
he  passed.  Even  had  it  been  light,  his  ig- 
norance  of  Rome  would  have  prevented  him 
from  observing  any  thing  with  intelligent  in- 
terest. Once  O'Rourke  pointed  to  a  largo 
building  and  said,  "  We're  coming  near,  that's 
the  Monastery  of  San  Antonio."  Blake  saw 
a  gloomy  and  shadowy  pile  in  a  narrow  i 
street,  but  could  not  make  much  out  of  it. 
They  had  not  much  farther  to  walk  after  this, 
but  soon  reached  a  dilapidated  house  of  an- 
cient architecture  and  large  size,  correspond- 
ing in  appearance  with  the  description  which 
O'Rourke  had  given  of  the  house  that  he  had 
rented.  The  doorway  was  low,  and  consisted 
of  an  archway  of  massive  stones.  The  doors 
wore  massive,  and  studded  with  large  iron 
bolts.  The  street  in  which  it  stood  was  nar- 
row  and  dark,  and  the  exterior  of  the  sombre 
edifice  threw  an  additional  gloom  over  the 
scene  around. 

O'Rourke  opened  the  door  in  silence,  and 
motioned  to  Blake  to  go  in.  Blake  did  so. 
Thereupon  O'Rourke  followed,  and  carefully 
bolted  the  massive  door.  Blake  threw  a 
glance  about  him.  He  saw  that  there  was  a 
court-yard,  around  which  appeared  the  sides 
of  the  gloomy  edifice,  from  which  a  deep 
shadow  was  thrown  down.  O'Rourke  did  not 
allow  him  to  look  long  upon  this  uninviting 
scene,  but  went  to  a  door  which  he  unlocked. 


101 


AN  OPEN  QUESTIOX, 


Bliike  foUowcJ  liiin.  They  onfcrcil  a  narrow 
hull,  and  O'Kourko  carefully  closed  the  door 
behind  him  and  locked  it. 

lie  tlicn  lighted  a  lantern,  and,  without  a 
word,  walked  along  the  Imll  till  ho  came  to  a 
narrow  stone  stairway.  JlJakc  followed  him. 
Down  this  narrow  Ptono  stairway  the  two 
went,  and  at  length  reached  a  chamber  under- 
neath. This  chamber  was  vaulted,  and  the 
walls  were  composed  of  large  stone?,  white- 
washed. O'Rourko  did  not  wait  here  a  mo- 
ment, but  walked  on,  followed  by  Dlake.  A 
narrow  arched  passage  led  from  this  vaulted 
chamber,  and,  passing  through  this,  they 
came  to  a  large  collar,  from  which  the  cham- 
ber had  evidently  been  walled  off.  The  cellar 
was  about  eight  foet  in  height,  and  was  formed 
of  solid  piers,  which  were  vaulted  over,  so 
as  to  support  the  massive  structure  above. 
These  piers  and  the  vaulted  roof  wore  oil 
grimy  with  dust  and  smoke,  and  covered  will- 
mould.  The  floor  was  formed  of  largo  slab; 
of  stone. 

O'Rourke  still  walked  on,  ond,  after  pass- 
ing several  piers,  at  length  stopped. 

As  ho  stopped,  he  turned  and  looked  for 
a  moment  at  Blake.  Then,  without  a  word, 
he  pointed  toward  his  left,  holding  up  his 
lantern  at  the  same  time  so  that  its  light 
might  shine  upon  the  place.  Blake  looked, 
and  saw  a  pile  of  rubbish.  The  next  moment 
he  sprang  toward  it,  and  O'Rourke,  i,'^\ing 
nearer,  held  his  lantern  bo  as  to  light  r  n  *h/' 
place. 

Blake  stooped  down  and  looked  T  rv  .rd 
■with  a  new  outburst  of  those  exeit'tJ  loi  .ings 
which  had  been  repressed  all  day.  The  pile 
of  rubbish  lay  against  the  wall  in  which  there 
Wfis  a  large  excavation,  terminating  in  a  black 
hole  of  oblong  shape.  It  was  the  hole  that 
O'Rourke  had  told  him  of.  This  was  the 
place,  and  this  was  the  entrance  to  those 
dazzling  fortunes  that  awaited  him. 

Carried  away  by  a  sudden  impulse,  he 
hurried  forward,  and  would  have  gone  through 
that  black  opening;  but  O'Rourke  laid  his 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  drew  him  back 
in  silence. 

O'Rourke  now  went  to  the  middle  of  the 
cellar  to  a  place  about  twenty  feet  from  the 
opening,  and  put  down  hia  lantern  on  the 
ptone  floor.  Blake  came  up  to  the  place  and 
Baw  a  number  of  articles  lying  there.  Promi- 
nent among  these  was  a  light  .ooden  ladder 
about  ten  feet  long.    There  was  also  a  box 


of  solid  construction  on  four  small  wheels  ;  n 
stout  wicker  basket  with  two  handles  ;  a  coil 
of  rope  ;  a  roll  of  canvas  ;  a  small  furnace  ;  a 
crucible  ;  three  lanterns  ;  a  vessel  of  oil ;  two 
pickaxes;  two  crow-bars;  an  axe;  several 
balls  of  twine  ;  together  with  some  smaller  ar- 
ticles of  a  miscellaneous  cliaractor.  O'Uourko 
had  already  i'lfornicd  Blake  that  ho  had 
made  a  hurried  collection  of  all  the  articles 
of  immediate  necessity  before  he  had  left 
Rome  for  Paris,  and  the  present  spectacio 
showed  the  latter  how  diligent  he  had 
been.  These  served  as  eloquent  reminders  of 
O'Rourke's  story,  and  as  forcible  suggestions 
of  the  work  that  lay  before  them. 

Blake's  first  act  was  to  take  one  of  the 
lanterns.  Ho  drew  some  matches  from  hi.H 
pocket,  and  proceeded  to  light  it.  Being  a 
smoker,  ho  always  carried  matches.  These 
were  destined  to  be  useful  afterward.  Hav- 
ing succeeded  in  lighting  his  lanten  ho 
looked  at  O'Kourke,  and  waited  for  the  next 
""vement.  lie  caught  O'Rourke's  eyes  fixed 
01.  " "  with  an  intent  air  of  watchfulness. 
For  a  «.  .^t  Blake  felt  a  slight  uneasiness, 
but  at  oncv  hook  it  off.  O'Rourke's  look 
had  struck  him  'i  being  slightly  unpleasant, 
but  the  thought  immediately  came  to  him 
that  his  friend  was  merely  watching  to  see 
whether  he  was  cool  or  excited.  So  the  only 
effect  of  this  apparently-sinister  glance  was 
to  cool  off  a  little  of  Blake's  excitement. 

O'Rourke  now  took  the  ladder  and  walked 
toward  the  excavation  in  the  wall.  Blake 
followed  him,  carrying  his  lantern,  and  noth- 
ing else.  O'Rourke  crawled  through  the  ob- 
long opening,  and  then  drew  his  ladder  after 
him.  Blake  followed  in  silence.  lie  put  his 
feet  through  first.  About  four  feet  below 
the  opening,  his  feet  touched  a  foothold,  and 
then  ho  drew  himself  altogether  inside,  and, 
holding  up  his  lantern,  stared  eagerly  around 
him. 

It  was  not  much  that  met  his  view.  Ho 
found  himself  inside  a  passage-way  excavated 
in  the  solid  rock.  The  rock  was  a  species  of 
sandstone.  Its  hue  was  dark,  and  its  surface 
still  bore  rough  marks  made  by  the  tools  of 
the  ancient  excavators.  The  height  was 
about  seven  feet,  or  a  little  over.  The  wall 
was  covered  with  slabs  which  bore  rudely-cut 
inscriptions.  These  slabs  were  of  a  lighter 
color  than  the  wall,  and  of  a  smoother  finish. 
They  were  placed  against  the  wall,  one  over 
the  other.    Immediately  opposite  him  were 


DESCENSUS  AVERNII 


108 


throe,  and  abovo  and  below  ttio  opening 
through  whicli  ho  had  corao  were  two  others, 
llct'oro  nnd  behind  him  was  thiclc  and  iin- 
pcnetrabio  daritncfis. 

Before  liira  O'Roiirlje  was  standing.  His 
back  was  turned  toward  iiim.  The  ladder 
which  he  had  brought  was  standing  on  tho 
ground,  and  tho  upper  part  resting  against 
his  shoulder.  Jlo  seemed  not  lo  bo  looking  at 
any  thing  in  particular,  for  his  head  was  bent 
forward  as  though  ho  was  in  deep  thought — 
as  though  he  was  meditating  the  best  plan  of 
advancing.  Hlako  waited  for  a  few  moments, 
and  tiien,  feeling  eager  to  go  on,  ho  touched 
O'Rourko's  shou'.i.r. 

Thus  far  O'Rourke's  behavior  had  been 
most  extraordinary.  From  the  moment  that 
he  had  locked  the  outer  doors  he  had  not 
spoken  a  word.  IMake  had  been  impressed  in 
spite  of  himself  by  the  silence  of  his  com- 
panion, and  had  said  nothing.  Now,  how- 
ever, as  Blake  touched  O'Rourke's  shoulder, 
the  latter  started  and  half  turned. 

"  Well,  Blake,  me  boy,"  said  he,  in  a  cheer- 
ful tone,  "  here  we  are  at  last  amid  the  mould- 
ering rimnints  of  the  apostolic  marchures  that 
deposited  their  bones  and  raised  thim  ipitaphs  ; 
sure,  but  it's  meself  that  would  be  tho  proud 
man  to  linger  here  and  dally  with  me  areha;o- 
logie.al  riminiscincis.  It's  a  fine  field,  so  it  is, 
for  classical  inthusiasm.  The  actual  fact 
bangs  all  tho  ilivatid  splindors  of  Virgilian 
diction.  Sure,  but  it's  careful  we've  got  to  be 
here ;  it's  easy  enough,  so  it  is,  to  go,  but 
we've  got  to  take  precautionary  raisures  about 
securing  a  returrun.  Sure  j'o  know  yerself 
how  it  is : 

....  'FacilU  tlegclnsiis  Avernl; 
Noctcs  atquo  dies  patct  atri  janua  Ditie ; 
Scd  revoraro   grudum,   ehuperasquo  evadero   ad 

auias 
Hoc  opuB,  liic  labor  est.  r,iucl,  qnos  acqnns  amavlt 
Jupiter,  aut  ardcns  evexlt  ad  actbora  virtus, 
DU  gcnitl,  potnere.' 

"  By-the-way,  now  that  I  come  to  think 
of  it,"  he  continued,  "it  would  bo  an  iligant 
question  intirely  whither  Virgil  didn't  get  some 
of  his  conceptions  of  the  under  worruld  from 
these  Catacombs ;  but  thin,  howlding,  as  I 
do,  tho  theory  of  their  Christian  origin,  that 
position  would  be  altogither  ontinible." 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  dare  8a_v,"  said  Blake,  indif- 
ferently ;  "  but  don't  you  think  we  had  better 
be  moving  ?  " 

At  this  O'Rourke  turned  nnd  looked  at 
him  with  a  fixed  gaze  and  a  slight  smile. 


"  Blako,  mo  boy,"  said  ho,  "  I  have  de- 

tccted  in  you  all  this  day  and  evening  a  dc- 
plorablo  tindincy  to  nnjue  oxeitemint.  Now, 
if  one  thing  is  prayiminintly  nccissitatid  in  an 
ixploration  of  this  discription,  it's  perfect 
eoolniss  and  iang-froid.  Ye  are  too  feverish ; 
yo  must  git  cooler.  Ye'll  lose  yer  head  liko 
poor  Onofrio,  and  vanish  from  mo  gazo  in 
some  of  these  schupindis  labyrinthine  wilder. 
nissis.  Try,  thin,  if  ye  can,  to  banish  from 
yer  mind  tho  dazzling  visions  that  are  luring 
yo  out  of  yer  sinses,  Tho  conversation  that  I 
mean  to  maintain  here  isn't  going  to  be  about 
any  thing  ixciting  or  sinsational,  but  rather 
upon  those  august  subjicts  that  give  tone  and 
inergy  to  the  mind.  Let  us  wander  onward, 
thin,  not  as  vulgar  money-diggers  or  trisure- 
hunters,  but  as  learned  archoeologists." 

With  these  words  O'Rourko  shouldered 
his  ladder,  and  walked  on  at  a  moderate  pace. 
Blako  followed.  The  passage  as  they  went 
on  continued  to  preserve  the  same  dimensions. 
On  either  side  appeared  tho  tablets  that  cov- 
ered the  tombs,  bearing  their  inscriptions.  Its 
course  was  not  exactly  straight,  yet  the  curve 
was  a  gentlo  one.  No  side-passages  or  cross- 
ings  appeared  for  some  time. 

At  length  a  crossing  appeared,  and  here 
O'Rourke  paused.  This  crossing  consisted 
of  a  passage  of  about  the  same  size  and  gen- 
eral appearance  as  the  one  which  they  were 
traversing ;  and  tho  eye,  in  glancing  into  it 
from  eilJier  side,  soon  lost  itself  in  the  im- 
penetrable  gloom.  Hero  O'Rourke  put  down 
his  ladder  and  the  lantern,  and  then  taking  a 
ball  of  twine  from  his  pocket,  he  fastened 
one  end  to  an  iron  bolt  which  he  had  brought 
for  that  purpiiGO.  This  he  placed  on  the 
floor.  It  was  to  be  their  clew.  Thus  far  all 
was  plain  ;  but  beyond  this  he  dared  not  trust 
himself  without  this  safeguard,  lie  now  took 
up  his  ladder  and  his  lantern.  Blake  insisted 
on  carrying  the  former,  and,  after  some  friendly 
altercation,  succeeded  in  doing  so,  O'Rourke 
now  held  the  lantern  in  one  hand,  and,  put- 
ting the  ball  in  his  pocket,  he  prepared  to  un- 
roll it  as  he  walked,  so  as  to  leave  the  clew  be- 
hind him, 

"  Sure,  Blake,  mo  boy,"  said  he,  "  but  this 
is  the  descint  into  the  inferrunal  worruld  that 
we've  read  about  at  school.  Here  we  are, 
we're  .Apneas  and  Achates,  or,  better  yet, 
we're  Alcides  and  Theseus — we  won't  dis- 
pute which  is  which. — Have  ye  ever  read  the 
'Hercules  Furens?'    I  warrant  ye  haven't. 


1 


101 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 


g 

hi' 


Well,  it's  a  fine  worruk  ;  and  I've  been  maun- 
dering and  soliloquizing  over  some  of  its  lines 
that  are  mighty  appropriate  to  our  prisiut 
adventurous  jourreny : 

'  Non  prata  vlridi  laeta  facie  germinant, 
Nee  adulta  lent  fluctuat  zephyro  scges  ; 
Non  nlla  ramoB  eilva  pomlferos  habet ; 
Bterilis  profandl  vastitas  Bqaalct  boH, 
Et  foeda  telliin  torpet  acterno  8ltn, 
Bernmqne  moestuB  finis  et  mnndl  ultima, 
ImmotuB  acr  haeret,  et  pigro  ecdet 
Nox  atra  mundo ;  cuncta  moerore  horrida, 
Ipsaque  morte  pejer  est  mortis  locus.' 

"  Now,  that's  what  I  call  mighty  fine  poe- 
try," said  O'Rourke,  "  and  I'll  jist  invite  ye  to 
projuice  any  other  passage  in  ancient  or  mod- 
ern poetry  that'll  beat  it.  Yes,  Blake,  me 
boy,  that's  it — '  ipsaque  morte  pojor  est  mor- 
tis locus  1 ' " 

Ee  stopped  abruptly,  and  then,  unwinding 
the  string,  went  forward. 

Blake  followed. 

Yes,  O'Rourke  was  trying  to  quiet  his 
nerves  by  quoting  Latin.  Now  if  that  Latin 
had  been  pronounced  Oxford-fashion,  it  would 
not  have  been  very  intelligible  to  Blake,  but, 
being  spoken  with  the  Continental  pronuncia- 
tion, and  wit'j  a  dash  of  Irish  brogue  running 
through  it,  he  did  not  comprehend  one  single 
word. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THB     CITY     OF     THE     DEAD. 

O'Rourke  thus  went  first,  unwinding  the 
String,  while  Blake  followed,  carrying  tlie 
ladder.  The  strange  silence  that  O'Rourke 
had  maintaincu  while  in  the  house  had  been 
succeeded  by  a  talkativeness  which  was 
equally  strange. 

"For  me  own  part,"  said  he,  as  he  walked 
along,  "  we  may  as  well  begyile  the  splichude 
of  the  jourreny  by  cheerful  though  not  excit- 
ing conversation ;  and,  by  the  same  token,  I 
may  remark  that  I  have  always  taken  a  deep 
interist  iti  the  Catacombs.  Here  we  have  an 
unequalled opporchunity  of  seeingthim  in  their 
friah  virgin  cc>ndition.  These  interesting  sub- 
jects are  very  useful  to  keep  us  in  a  cool 
state  of  moind,  and  to  act  as  a  privintivc 
against  unjuc  excitemint. 

"  It's  ividint,"  he  continued,  "  that  these 
oi-fe  all  Christian  tombs,  for  on  most  of  tliim 
ye  way  see  the  monogram  that  I  mintioncd 
to  you.     Here,  for  Instince,  is  one." 


He  stopped  in  front  of  one  of  the  tombs, 
and  held  up  his  lamp.  Blake  stopped,  also, 
and  looked  at  it,  though  with  much  less  in- 
terest than  that  which  was  felt,  or  at  least 
affected,  by  his  companion.  There  were  four 
slabs  here,  one  above  another,  enclosing  four 
graves.  The  inscriptions  were  rudely  cut  in 
all  these.  Some  of  the  names,  which  were 
Greek,  were  spelled  with  Greek  letters. 

"  Many  of  these  tombs  are  ividently  occu- 
pied," said  O'Rourke,  "  by  min  of  the  lower 
classes,  but  it  doesn't  follcv  that  the  Chris- 
tians of  the  age  which  buried  these  bodies 
had  no  shuparior  min.  Of  course,  the  major- 
ity among  thim,  as  in  all  other  communities, 
was  ignorant,  and  the  majority  asserts  itself 
even  in  this  sublime  naycropolis.  Still,  that's 
a  fine  ipitaph,"  said  he,  pointing  lo  the  one 
before  him.  "  It's  laconic,  and  yet  full  of 
profound  meaning.  Spartan  brivity  with 
Christian  pathos." 

The  epitaph  to  which  he  pointed  consisted 
but  of  a  few  words.     They  were  these : 

"  Faustina,  cruciala,  dormit,  rcmrget," 

Another  bore  the  inscription  : 

"  Doitnilorhim  CcvciH." 

Another : 

"Aselxis  dormit  in  pace.     Vidalia  fecit." 

O'Rourke  walked  on  farti  jr,  stopping  at 
times  in  front  of  those  tablets  which  bore 
longer  inscriptions  than  usual,  and  trans- 
lating them  for  the  benefit  of  his  companion, 
of  whose  classical  acquirements  and  intelli- 
gent appreciation  of  the  scene  around  him  ho 
seemed  to  have  doubts,  which  were  probably 
well  founded. 

"  Here,"  said  he,  "  is  one  that  reminds  me 
of  that  one  of  Marius  behind  us,  that  I  forgot 
to  show  you : 

"  '  Lavinia,  of  wondeifid  amialililii,  tcAo 
lived  ciffhtcen  years  and  sixteen  days.  Lavinia 
sleeps  in  peace.  Her  father  and  mother  set  up 
this.' 

"  Here,  Blake,  is  a  long  one : 

•' '  Adscrtor,  our  son,  is  not  dead,  but  lives 
in  heaven.  An  innocent  boy,  you  have  already 
begun  to  I've  among  the  innocent  ones.  How 
gladly  will  your  mother,  the  Church  of  God, 
receive  you  returning  from  this  world/  Let  us 
restrain  our  tears  and  cease  from  lamentations.' 

I        "Here,"  said  O'Rourke,  as  he  stopped  in 


tombe, 


TUB   CITY  OF  THE  DEAD. 


tm 


frout  of  another,  "is  oue  of  the  most  inter- 
esting. It  is  a  bMor.ium,  D'ye  liappen  to 
know  what  a  bcsomum  is  ?  Well,  it's  a  place 
where  two  are  buried— or  sleep  together,  as 
the  holy  Christians  called  it." 

A  few  steps  farther  on,  the  attention  of 
O'Rourko  was  arrested  by  an  inscription 
which  was  far  longer  than  any  which  had  yet 
met  bis  eyes. 

"  See  here,"  said  he,  "  this  one  tells  a  long 
Btory."    And  then  he  read  it : 

"  '  Phocim  sleeps  here.  A  faithful  bishop. 
He  ended  his  life  under  the  Emperor  Becius. 
On  his  knees,  and  among  ifie  faithful,  he  was 
arrested  and  led  away  to  execution.  His  friends 
placed  him  here,  with  tears  and  in  fear.  Oh, 
sad  times/  in  which  even  among  sacred  rites 
and  prayers,  not  even  in  caverns  and  among 
tombs  can  we  be  safe.  ]\7iat  can  be  more 
wretched  than  such  a  life,  and  what  than  such 
a  death,  where  they  cannot  be  buried  by  their 
friends  and  relations  ?  lie  has  scarcely  liv'^ 
who  has  lived  in  Christian  times.'  " 

O'Rourke  stood  for  a  few  moments  mu- 
sing. 

"It's  been  a  theme  of  frequint  medita- 
tion with  mc,"  said  he,  "  the  wonderful  dif- 
ferince  between  these  Christians  and  their 
pagan  contimporaries  with  rifirince  to  their 
regyard  of  death.  Go  read  the  iiiiv;nptions 
on  the  pagan  tombs.  AV  hat  arc?  they  all  ? 
Terror  unspeakable,  mnurniug,  lamentat'on, 
and  woe.  Not  a  ray  of  hope.  '  I  lift  up  my 
hands,'  says  one,  '  against  the  gods,  who  have 
snatched  away  me  innocent.'  But  what  do 
wo  see  here  ?  Not  a  oad  longing  after  the 
vanished  plisures  t:i  life,  but  a  confident 
expectation  of  a  better  life  to  come." 

O'Rourke  here  gave  a  deep  sigh,  and  again 
resumed  his  walk.  This  time  he  paid  no  fur- 
ther attention  to  the  epitaphs.  It  seemed  to 
Blake  as  though  he  had  been  carried  awa^ 
beyond  himself,  and  beyond  all  immediate 
recollection  of  his  errand  here,  by  the  solemn 
memorials  of  the  sainted  dead.  For  such 
feelings  as  these  Blake  felt  nothing  but  pro- 
found  respect.  It  heightened  his  estimalo  of 
O'Rourke's  character ;  and,  though  the  con- 
versation was  one  in  which  he  hiid  not  felt 
able  to  take  part,  yet  it  Iiad  produced  a 
marked  cffoct  upon  him.  The  translations 
of  these  epitaphs  drove  away  the  wild  fever 
of  excitement  which  had  so  long  clung  to 
him.    In  the  presence  of  these  solemn  memo- 


rials of  Christian  sulferiug  and  constancy  and 
faith,  his  longings  after  treasure  and  riches  ap- 
peared paltry  and  trivial,  and  there  was  com- 
municated to  his  mind  a  feeling  of  shame  at 
coming  on  rach  an  errand  to  such  a  place. 
With  the  cessation  of  his  hot  excitement 
there  came,  also,  a  feeling  of  something  akin 
to  indifTercnce  about  the  result  of  his  search, 
and  he  began  to  contemplate  a  possible  faiU 
ure  with  equanimity. 

Already  as  they  advanced  they  had  como 
to  places  where  other  passage-ways  crossed 
their  path,  and  disclosed  depths  of  viewless 
gloom  on  either  side.  There  was  something 
appalling  in  the  suggestions  which  these  af- 
forded of  endless  labyrinthc,  in  which  to  ven- 
ture for  even  a  few  paces  would  be  a  death 
of  horror.  They  served  to  remind  Blake  of 
the  terrible  fate  of  Onofrio,  and  gave  to  that 
slender  thread  which  O'Rourke  wtis  unwind- 
ing an  inconceivable  importance.  Upon  that 
slender  thread  now  hung  their  two  lives — that 
was  the  tie  that  bound  them  to  the  world  of 
the  living,  and  by  the  help  of  which  they 
could  alone  hope  to  retrace  their  steps  to  the 
upper  air. 

For  already  the  passage-way  had  wound 
about  in  various  directions,  and  they  had 
come  to  other  passages  which  led  into  this  at 
such  an  angle  that  it  would  be  only  too  easy 
to  choose  the  wrong  path  on  returning.  None 
of  these  passages  were  crooked,  but  the  diffi- 
culty lay  in  the  way  in  which  they  opened 
into  one  another,  and  in  the  confusion  which 
their  general  similarity  would  create  in  any 
mind. 

"I  tnini:  \'u'  going  ri";1it,"  said  O'Rourke; 
"but  that  I'.st  passage-way  mny  have  been 
the  proper  course  foi'  us.  Howandiver,  we're 
on  tiie  wny  ♦« '.he  Painted  Chamber.  That's 
thy  nixt  objictive  point  to  aim  at.  Once 
there,  the  opening  in  the  flure'll  be  a 
gyido." 

T!iey  walked  on  for  some  distance  farther, 
and  then  O'Rourko  stopped  and  half  turned. 
Blake  camo  up  and  found  that  the  passage- 
way here  had  been  enlarged.  There  was  a 
species  of  chamber — the  roof  was  vaulted — 
the  sides  were  covered  with  a  thin  coating  of 
stucco,  upon  which  were  soma  faded  pictures, 
roughly  drawn  and  rudely  colored.  At  once 
he  recognized  the  plac  .>  as  the  one  which  had 
oecn  mentioned  in  the  iitory  of  Aloysius. 

"  The  Painted  Chamber ! "  exclaimed 
Blake 


i     i 


106 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


;i 


■ii 


i|    ' 


•i\ 


O'Rourke  smiled. 

"  True  for  you,"  said  he.  "  And  so  we're 
right  thus  far.  It's  mighty  incouraging,  so  it 
is — and  I  must  say,  ye  see  yersilf,  how  much 
better  it  is  for  two  to  come  than  one.  I  con- 
fess, Blaicc,  me  boy,  there's  a  solimnity  about 
this  place  that  overawes  me ;  and,  if  I'd  been 
alone,  I'd  have — well,  I'd  not  have  come  so 
far  this  time.  I'd  have  returrened,  so  I  would. 
And  sure  and  this  is  a  great  place  intirely,  so 
it  is.  Sure,  and  the  paintings  are  on  the 
walls  yit,  as  any  one  may  discerrun,  just  as 
me  cousin  JIalachi  said  they  were — and  what 
is  this  ?  "  he  continued,  going  up  to  the  wall 
and  holding  up  his  lantern.  "  Sure,  and  it's 
the  Noachian  diluge,  though  rudely  enough 
drawn — and  here,"  he  continued,  going  to  an- 
other place,  "  is  a  galley  with  a  sail.  I've 
seen  that  afore  in  the  LapiJarian  gallery, 
and  they  interpret  it  to  riprisint  the  immor- 
tality of  the  soul.  Here's  a  palm-branch — 
here's  another  ship,  and  a  fish — and  a  man — 
maybe  it's  Jonah  they  meant.  I  tell  you 
what  it  is,  Blake,  me  boy,  there's  a  power  of 
symbolical  meaning  in  all  this,  and  I'd  be 
proud  to  explain  it  all  to  yc  some  time;  but 
just  now,  perhaps,  we'd  better  reshume  our 
wanderings." 

Upon  all  these,  which  O'Rourke  thus 
pointed  out,  Blake  looked  with  an  interest 
which  had  been  increased  by  the  scenes 
through  which  ho  had  been  passing,  and  by 
the  solemn  thoughts  which  they  had  created 
within  his  mind.  Not  unwillingly  would  he 
have  delayed  a  little  to  listen  to  his  compan- 
ion, who  seemed  to  have  such  a  wonderful 
comprehension  of  the  mciining  of  these  draw- 
ings, so  rude  and  bo  meaningless  to  his  inex- 
perienced eyes ;  but  O'ilourkc's  proposal  to 
go  on  drew  away  his  attention,  and  he  at  once 
acquiesced  without  a  word. 

"We've  got  to  go  straight  on,"  said 
O'Rourke, "  and  we  ought  to  come  to  the  hole 
before  long." 

The  eh.amber  was  circular,  and  about 
twelve  feet  in  diameter.  It  seemed  to  be  a 
Bimplc  enlargement  of  the  intersection  of  two 
passages.  Oneo  enlarged,  it  had  been  deco- 
rated in  the  manner  already  noticed. 

O'Rourke  turned  away,  but  still  hesitated, 
in  that  manner  whi.h  hud  marked  his  prog- 
ress here  all  along.  There  was  evidently 
something  on  bis  mind.  Blake  noticed  it, 
but  thought  that  it  was  simply  his  medita- 
tions upon  the  early  Chrisliiins. 


"  It's  a  small  place,  too,  for  such  a  pup- 
pose,"  said  O'Rourke,  speaking  as  if  at  the 
conclusion  of  a  train  of  solemn  thought.  "  It 
couldn't  have  held  many.  It  must  have  been 
crowdid,  so  it  must." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Blake. 
"What  purpose?" 

"Well,  you  see,  Blake,  me  boy,"  said 
O'Rourke,  "  this  place  was  once  used  as  a 
Christian  chapel." 

"A  chapel!" 

"  Yis.  Juring  times  of  perse(.i'ti> 'i,  ili.> 
Christians  had  often  to  fly  to  th  sf.  tj  f-- 
clcf,  and  hide  here.  In  these  <,n- p' ',.  ,;• 
had  to  conduct  their  saured  ciriroor  i  Ihxe, 
too,  they  had  their  burial-services.  Oli,  mve, 
if  these  walls  could  but  speak,  what  a  tale 
they  could  tell !  Mind  ye,  I  do-i't  hold  with 
some  that  there  iver  was  a  time  whin  the 
Christian  population  came  down  here  en  7nasse/ 
I  hold  that  it  was  only  the  shuparior  clergy — 
the  bishops,  and  sich  like — or  the  imiuint 
min  that  hid  themselves  here.  But  they  held 
their  services  here,  no  doubt;  and  on  Sun- 
days there  would  be  a  large  crowd  wandering 
about  here,  as  they  were  being  conducted  to 
these  chapels,  or  as  they  came  to  bury  the  re- 
mains of  some  fiind.  But  what  pu'.zles  me 
is,  that  I  don't  see  any  remains  of  an  i  Itar,  or 
any  thing  of  that  kind.  If  it  had  been  used 
as  a  chapel,  there'd  have  been  an  altar,  and, 
if  80,  there'd  have  been  some  remains,  unless 
they  afterward  removed  thim  to  some  church 
overhead.  And  that  may  have  been — but  the 
fact  is,  the  quistion  is  a  complicated  one,  and 
cannot  be  fairly  and  fully  discussed  on  an  oc- 
casion like  this." 

With  this,  O'Rourke  turned  abruptly 
away,  and,  unrolling  the  string,  ho  walked  out 
of  the  chapel  through  that  passage -wa'' 
which  was  a  continuation  of  the  path 
along  which  they  had  hitherto  been  advanc- 
ing. 

Lo  walked  on,  unrolling  tlie  string  as  be- 
fore, holding  the  light  very  carefully  so  as  t' 
see  his  way,  und  not  saying  a  word.  Blake 
followed  in  silence.  In  this  way  they  went 
on  for  about  fifty  paces. 

Then  O'Rourke  Btopne()  and  looked  ear- 
nestly downwFi'fil  at  tlo  j;  (Ijway  before  him. 
Then  ho  ad'  .''td  two  '<(f>"i  farther.  Then 
ho  tuiT'd  'lu  J  held  oi;;  'i'  i,/  id  with  a  ■warn- 
ing poHtu/e. 

"  It's  the  hole  !  .--e've  come  to  it ! "  said 
he,  in  a  Iot  whisper. 


Blake. 


T,.-%; 


"!>■*     i- 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DEAD. 


107 


S 


"  Where  ?  where  ? "  asked  Blako,  hurry- 
ing up. 

"  Tliere  ! "  said  O'Rourke. 

As  he  said  this,  he  pointed  to  a  blackness 
in  the  path  before  him.  Blake  looked,  and 
saw  an  opening  in  the  path,  yawning  imme- 
diately beneath  them.  An  involuntary  shud- 
der passed  through  him,  as  he  thought  of  the 
danger  which  this  presented  to  the  incautious 
explorer.  But  the  danger  here  was  not  real, 
after  all ;  for  no  explorers  came  to  this  place, 
except  themselves,  and  they  had  been  suffi- 
ciently cautious  to  iivoid  it. 

"  Me  cousin  Malachi  was  right,"  said 
O'Rour'ce.  "  lie  came  as  far  as  this.  It 
now  remains  to  see  whether  the  monk  Aloy- 
sius  was  right  or  not.  If  so— thin — soon — 
we — shall — know — all." 

O'Rourke  spoke  slowly.  Blake  made  no 
answer.  Ho  had  reached  this  spot  about 
which  ho  had  thought  with  intense  excite- 
ment of  late — this  spot  which  seemed  the  last 
stage  in  tlie  journey  to  endless  wealth ;  but 
now  his  imagination,  which  but  lately  had  so 
kindled  itself  at  this  thouglit,  lay  dull  and 
dormant  within  him.  Already  there  was  a 
load  on  his  mind,  a  dull  presentiment  of 
evil.  lie  was  conscious  of  this  change.  lie 
wondered  at  it.  He  attributed  it  to  various 
things — to  the  reaction  consequent  upon  over- 
excitement  long  continued  ;  to  the  sermoniz- 
ing of  O'Rourke,  who  had  discoursed  upon 
semi-sacred  things  ever  since  they  had  en- 
tered here ;  to  the  presence  of  the  dead, 
whose  holy  lives,  and  glorious  deaths,  and 
immortal  hopes  beyond  the  grave,  seemed  to 
throw  such  contempt  upon  so  mean  a  quest 
as  this,  for  the  sake  of  which  he  had  violated 
their  last  resting-place.  But,  whichever  of 
these  wus  the  cause,  there  he  stood,  not  in- 
different, but  strangely  melancholy,  and  dis- 
turbed in  soul  with  vague  alarms  and  dark 
forebodings. 

O'Rourke  stood  looking  down  in  silence 
into  the  yawning  abyss  beneath.  Then,  draw- 
ing a  long  breath,  he  put  his  lamp  down  on 
one  side  of  tho  pathway,  and,  turning  to 
Blake,  he  took  the  ladder  from  him. 

This  ladder  he  then  proceeded  to  letdown. 
Ho  did  this  slowly  and  cautiously.  In  a  few 
minutes  it  touched  tho  bottom,  and  tiio  top 
of  it  projected  about  one  inch.  The  ladder, 
being  ten  feet  long,  showed  thus  the  depth 
of  the  passage  beneath  from  the  place  in 
which  they  were  standing. 


"  My  calculation,"  said  O'Rourke,  "  was 
based  upon  the  statemints  of  the  monk  Aloy- 
sius.  This  proves  that  the  statemints  were 
true.  Every  thing  in  that  manuscript  has 
thus  far  turrened  out  true,  and  I  only  hope 
the  rest  of  our  undertaking  will  be  equally 
successful.    So  now,  here  goes  ! " 

Saying  this,  O'Rourke  began  to  descend. 
Blake  watched  him  till  he  reached  the  bot- 
tom.  He  saw  that  the  passage  below  was,  in 
all  respects,  the  counterpart  of  the  one  above. 
But  he  did  not  delay  to  look.  The  moment 
that  O'Rourke  had  reached  the  bottom,  he 
began  to  descend,  and  in  a  few  moments  stood 
by  his  side. 

O'Rourke  now  went  on  very  cautiously, 
unwinding  the  string. 

"  Shall  I  take  the  ladder?  "  said  Blake. 

"  No,"  said  O'Rourke  ;  "  if  Aloysius  is 
right,  there'll  be  no  need  for  the  ladder ;  and, 
if  he's  wrong,  thin  our  game's  up — that's  all. 
Besides,  I  don't  believe  there'd  be  any  ixca- 
vation  beneath  this.  We  must  now  be  on  a 
level  with  the  Tiber." 

Blake,  upon  this,  followed  his  companion, 
leaving  the  ladder  where  it  had  been  placed. 

They  walked  about  thirty  paces. 

Suddenly,  O'Rourke  stopped,  and  turned 
round  with  a  blank  expression,  feeling  his 
coat-pockets,  one  after  the  other. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  asked  Blake. 

"  Tare  an'  ages  !  "  exclaimed  O'Rourke, 
"  if  I  haven't  dropped  me  other  ball  of  twine, 
and  this  one  is  nearly  used  up !  I  wouldn't 
trust  meself  a  step  farther." 

"  Why !  did  you  leave  it  behind  in  the 
cellar?" 

"  Sure  and  I  took  it  with  mo,  so  I  did,  and 
— by  the  powers  !  I  have  it — I  moind  pulling 
out  me  handkerchief  in  the  chapel,  and  I 
moind  hearing  a  thud  on  the  flurc.  I  must 
have  dropped  it.  I'll  go  straight  back  for  it, 
and  you  wait  here — unless  you're  afraid  of  the 
ghosts — you  wait  here,  and  I'll  be  back  in  a 
giffy,  so  I  will." 

Saying  this,  O'Rourke  brushed  past  Blako, 
on  his  way  back  to  the  chapel  to  get  the  ball 
of  twine. 

"  Ye  may  be  going  on,"  said  ho  to  Blake, 
"till  ye  come  to  any  new  passage-way — it 
seems  like  a  straight  course — or  ye  may  wait 
for  me." 

"Oh,   I'll  wait  for    you!"    said  BUi  . 
"  We'll  find  it,  or  miss  it  in  company." 

He  .«poke  in  a  melancholy  voice.     He  had 


ll 


u 


108 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


begun  to  feel  half  vexed  with  himself  for  his 
own  iudifference ;  jet  he  was  indifferent.  Nor 
was  it  unaccountable.  Often  does  it  happen, 
in  the  lives  of  men,  that  an  object,  pursued 
with  absorbing  eagerness  from  a  distance, 
grows  tame  at  a  closer  approach.  Thus  the 
lover's  ardor  is  sometimes  dispelled  on  the 
approach  of  the  marriage-day ;  and  thus  Mont 
Blanc,  which  had  inspired  such  a  glow  of  en- 
thusiasm when  seen  from  the  Vale  of  Cha- 
mouni,  becomes  a  freezing  mass  of  ice,  kill- 
ing all  enthusiasm,  when  the  climber  ap- 
proaches its  summit. 

So,  in  profound  dejection,  Blake  stood 
still,  waiting  for  O'Eourke.  lie  had  lost  his 
enthusiasm  ;  his  excitement  was  gone.  Ava- 
rice, ambition — even  these  feelings  ceased  to 
inspire  him. 

At  length,  it  struck  him  that  O'Rourke 
had  been  gone  for  a  long  time.  A  slight  fear 
arose.     It  was  instantly  quelled. 

lie  determined  to  go  back  in  search  of 
him. 

lie  walked  back  for  some  time. 

Suddenly,  he  stood  still. 

lie  was  confounded. 

He  had  walked  back  a  distance  greater 
than  that  which  he  had  followed  O'Rourke 
after  descending  the  ladder,  yet  he  had  not 
come  to  the  ladder.  Only  twenty-five  paces 
or  so !    lie  had  walked  fifty. 

Where  was  the  ladder  ? 

He  looked  along  the  arch  of  the  vaulted 
passage  overhead,  holding  up  his  lamp. 

He  walked  back  for  twenty-five  paces. 

Overhead  was  an  opening  in  the  vault, 
black,  impenetrable,  terrible  !  Was  that  the 
place  through  which  he  had  descended  ? 

It  was  1 

Where  was  the  ladder  ? 

Tfie  ladikr  was  gone  I 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


BETRAYED. 


For  a  long  time  Blake  stood  staring  at 
that  black  opening  overhead.  Not  a  vestige 
of  any  thing  was  there.  The  string  had  gone. 
O'Rourke  had  taken  away  from  him  not  mere- 
ly the  means  of  return,  but  the  clew  which 
showed  the  way.  And  this  was  all  of  which 
he  was  conscious.  Even  of  this  he  was  only 
conscious  in  a  vague  wav  for  his  brain  was 


in  a  whirl,  and  his  whole  frame  tingled  at  the 
horror  of  his  thoughts,  and,  in  the  immensity 
of  this  sudden  calamity,  he  stood  bewildered, 
Incapable  of  speech  or  motion  —  incapable 
even  of  thought.  Not  a  sound  came  to  his 
cars.  It  was  silence  all  around — the  silence 
of  death.  Yet  his  attitude  was  one  of  ex- 
pectancy. As  yet  he  could  not  believe  all,  or 
realize  the  full  extent  of  his  appalling  condi- 
tion. His  expectation  rested  on  O'Rourke, 
and  his  ears  tried  to  catch  the  sound  of  re- 
turning footsteps.  But  his  ears  listened  in 
vain,  and  the  time  passed,  and  horror  deep- 
ened in  his  soul,  till,  from  this  'iiint  hope  he 
descended  slowly  into  the  aby-    of  despair. 

One  thought  now  overspread  all  his  mind, 
and  this  was  that  O'Rourke  had  betrayed 
him,  and  had  lured  him  here  for  this  very 
purpose.  Why  he  had  done  this  lie  did  not 
at  that  time  try  to  conjecture.  He  was  not 
yet  sufficiently  master  of  his  own  thoughts  to 
speculate  upon  this.  He  had  only  the  one 
supreme  and  overwhelming  idea  of  treachery 
— treachery  dark,  deep,  demoniacal,  far-reach- 
ing— which  had  laid  this  trap  for  him,  and 
had  brought  him  to  it.  To  this  feeling  ho 
yielded.  His  head  sank  down  from  that  up- 
ward stretch  into  which,  for  a  time,  it  had 
been  frozen  ;  the  rigidity  of  his  limbs,  wrought 
by  one  moment  of  unutterable  horror,  relaxed  ; 
a  shudder  passed  through  him ;  he  trembled 
like  a  palsied  man,  and  his  nerveless  hands 
could  scarcely  hold  the  lantern.  But  this 
lig[it  now  shone  before  hira  as  his  very  last 
hope — if  there  was,  indeed,  any  such  thing 
as  hope  remaining  —  and  to  save  this  he 
clutched  it  with  a  convulsive  grasp.  This 
effort  roused  him  from  his  stupor;  and, 
though  his  bodily  strength  was  still  beyond 
his  recall,  yet  the  faculties  of  his  mind  were 
restored  and  rallied  at  the  impulse  of  the  in- 
stinct of  self-preservation.  Too  weak  to  stand 
erect  any  longer,  he  seated  himself,  still  clutch- 
ing his  lantern,  with  his  back  supported  against 
the  wall,  and  then,  in  his  despair,  began  to 
think  what  might  be  the  meaning  of  this. 

Had  O'Rourke  really  left  him  f  Of  this 
he  had  no  doubt.  But  why  had  lie  done 
this  ?  To  this  he  could  give  no  answer  what- 
ever. 

Suddenly  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  beijan 
to  call  in  his  loudest  voice.  His  terrors,  after 
all,  might  be  unfounded,  and  O'Rourke  might, 
perhaps,  return.  At  least  he  might  answsr 
and  tell  him  the  meaning  of  this.     With  this 


BETRAYED. 


109 


hope  he  called,  and,  for  some  time,  hia  cries 
Bounded  forth  as  ho  uttered  every  form  of 
appeal,  of  entreaty,  of  reproach,  of  despair. 
Ilia  voice  rang  mournfully  down  the  long  paa- 
Bages  ;  but  to  him,  as  he  listened,  there  came 
no  reply  except  the  dull,  distant  echoes  re- 
turned from  the  gloomy  recesses  of  the  Cata- 
combs. Whether  O'Rourke  heard  him  or  not 
he  could  not  tell.  Perhaps  he  had  hurried 
away  at  once,  so  as  to  be  out  of  the  hearing 
of  his  cries  ;  perhaps  ho  was  waiting  close 
by,  and  listening  coolly  to  the  despairing  en- 
treaties of  his  victim  ;  but,  whatever  he  had 
done  or  was  doing,  he  gave  no  sign.  Above, 
all  wcis  dark.  Blake  covered  up  his  own  light 
as  ho  looked  up,  to  see  if  there  was  any  gleam 
from  O'Rourke's  lantern  visible  in  that  upper 
passage-way,  but  his  most  searching  scrutiny 
failed  to  distinguish  tho  slightest  possible 
glimmer  of  light  in  that  intense  gloom.  It 
was  the  blackness  of  darkness. 

Once  more  Blake  sank  down  into  the  de- 
spair of  his  own  thoughts.  With  this  despair 
there  was  mingled  unspeakable  wonder  at 
O'Rourke's  treachery.  The  motive  that  had 
impelled  him  to  this  was  utterly  beyond  his 
conception.  IIo  had  known  him  for  a  year, 
lie  had  made  his  acquaintance  in  the  most 
casual  manner.  They  had  gradually  drifted 
into  one  another's  way.  What  had  ho  ever 
done,  or  what  could  O'Rourke  have  imagined 
him  to  have  done,  that  he  should  plan  for  him 
80  terrible  a  fate  as  this  ?  Or  what  possible 
purpose  of  any  possible  kind  could  O'Rourke 
have  before  himself  that  could  be  promoted 
by  such  a  crime  ? 

It  was  no  panic-flight  of  O'Rourke's.  It 
was  deliberate.  IIo  had  taken  the  ladder  so 
noiselessly  that  no  sound  had  indicated  what 
ho  wa3  doing.  lie  had  even  removed  the 
clew. 

It  was,  therefore  deliberate ;  and  this 
treachery  joined  itself  to  all  that  had  gone 
before — formed  the  clima.^  to  it  all.  It  was 
now  evident  that  tho  whole  story  of  tho 
treasure  had  been  planned  for  the  purpose 
of  luring  nim  to  this  place  and  to  this  fate. 
The  story  of  Aloysius  had  been,  no  doubt,  a 
fiction  of  O'Rourke's,  from  beginning  to  end. 
His  cousin  Malachi  had  never  existed.  The 
Monastery  of  San  Antonio  probably  was  a 
fiction.  Tho  old  manuscript  was  another, 
O'Rourke  had  never  produced  it.  lie  had 
told  an  exciting  story,  and  worked  upon  his 
crwdulily,  his  necessities,  his  ambition,  and 


his  avarice.  As  to  the  treasure,  it  was  tho 
wildest  of  dreams.  If  there  had  been  any, 
he  would  not  have  been  betrayed  to  this  fate. 

Such  was  tho  sudden  awakening  of  Basil 
Blake  from  his  dreams  of  boundless  wealth. 

But  there  remained  tho  dark  and  inex- 
plicable problem  of  the  motives  of  O'Rourke. 

Could  it  be  that  ho  was  mad  ? 

This  would  account  for  it  all.  O'Rourke 
was  eert;.inly  eccentric.  His  eccentricity 
might  bo  madnes?.  lie  might '  avc  been  one 
of  those  homicidal  madmen  who  plan  craftily 
the  deaths  of  others  ;  and  his  very  acquaint- 
ance with  him  might  have  been  sufficient  to 
suggest  to  O'Rourke  a  plan  for  his  destruc- 
tion, lie  recalled  his  strange  demeanor  since 
their  arrival  at  Rome  ;  his  singular  silence  in 
the  cellar;  his  unwonted  talkativeness  on  tho 
way  through  the  passages  ;  his  odd  gestures, 
mysterious  looks,  and  significant  words.  Were 
not  all  these  the  signs  of  a  disordered  brain  ? 

On  tho  other  hand,  if  he  were  not  mad, 
what  possible  motive  could  I;c  have  for  his 
treachery  ?  Blake  could  think  of  nothing 
whatever  in  his  lifo  that  could  account  for 
any  hostile  plot  against  him.  All  his  life  had 
been  commonplace,  and  his  position  was  suf- 
ficiently obscure  to  guard  him  against  the 
machinations  of  enemies.  One  thing  only  in 
all  that  life  of  his  stood  forth  as  beyond  the 
obscure  and  the  commonplace.  That  was 
tho  mysterious  friendship  of  Mr.  Wyvcrne, 
his  mother's  singular  words,  and,  a'^ove  all, 
the  strange  and  incredible  declarations  of  the 
dying  man.  But  that  had  already  been  de- 
clared false  by  another  authority.  Even  if  it 
should  be  true,  could  there  be  any  thing  in 
that  which  could  connect  itself  in  any  way 
with  O'Rourke's  plot,  and  bo  a  reasonable 
cause  for  such  a  terrible  betrayal  as  this  ? 
How  should  O'Rourke  know  Wyverne  ?  How 
could  he  be  benefited  ?  Or  wore  there  others 
who  wished  to  get  him  out  of  tho  way — by 
such  a  mode  of  destruction  as  would  render 
it  impossible  that  ho  could  ever  again  be 
heard  of?  Alas!  if  there  were  any  who 
had  sent  O'Rourke  to  do  thir,  they  had  cer- 
tainly chosen  their  agent  well.  Blake  now 
remembered  how  completely  he  had  concealed 
his  movements  ;  and  he  recalled  those  letters 
which  he  had  written  to  Kane  Hcllmuth  and 
his  mother,  in  which  not  the  slightest  indica- 
tion was  given  of  the  place  to  which  he  was 
bound,  or  the  purpose  for  which  lie  was  go- 
ing.     He  was  now  alone — no  friend   could 


■ 


110 


AX  OPEN  QUESTION. 


help — DO  one  could  ever  track  him  here  ;  and 
here  he  must  die,  and  exhibit  the  fullest  real- 
ity 01  that  dread  fate  which  O'ltourke  hud  as- 
:ilbcd  tu  lii'  imaginary  Onofrlo. 

i;ut  nov  another  change  came  over  Blake 
•^a  reaction  from  this  despair — a  recoil  from 
that  paralysis  of  all  his  energies  which  had 
come  upon  him.  lie  started  to  his  feet. 
There  was  yet  time.  Could  he  not  retrace  his 
steps  ?  How  much  time  had  already  passed 
he  did  not  know,  but,  if  he  could  find  his  way 
back  along  the  passages  to  that  opening  iu 
the  wall,  he  might  yet  save  himself. 

Tills  thought  at  onco  restored  all  Lis 
strength  of  body  and  vigor  of  mind  to  the  ut- 
most. He  started  to  hia  feet,  and  once  more 
looked  upward,  scanning  eagerly  that  opening 
above  him.  The  distance  was  not  great.  Was 
it  impossible  for  him  to  cliuib  up  there  and 
regain  that  passage-way  ?  True,  there  was 
nothing  but  the  smooth  wall,  which  presented 
no  foothold  just  here,  except  tlio  slabs  that 
covered  over  the  graves.  Ue  could  not  jump 
up,  he  was  not  sufficiently  agile  for  that.  How, 
then,  could  he  contrive  to  scale  that  bare  wall 
of  ten  feet  between  himself  and  the  floor 
above  ? 

The  wall  itself  afforded  a  ready  answer  to 
this.  On  that  wall  there  were  three  slabs, 
covering  three  tombs,  one  above  the  other,  in 
the  mode  which  has  already  been  mentioned 
80  frequently.  If  those  slabs  could  but  be 
removed,  or  if  only  one  of  them  could  be  dis- 
placed, then  Blake  would  have  a  foothold  by 
which  he  could  reach  the  upper  passage-way. 
These  slabs  ho  now  examined  most  carefully. 
He  struck  them  with  Lis  hands  ;  he  tried  to 
find  some  crevice  by  whioh  ho  could  got  a 
sufficient  hold  of  them  to  pull  them  from  their 
places.  But  these  efforts  were  vain ;  for, 
though  ages  had  passed  away  since  they  were 
placed  here,  still  the  cement  was  firm,  and 
none  of  the  slabs  would  yield. 

But  Blake  would  not  yet  give  up.  Every 
thing  now  seemed  to  depend  upon  the  prompt- 
ness with  which  he  worked.  He  drew  his 
knife,  and,  opening  the  large  blade,  began  to 
cut  at  the  stone  over  the  slab.  His  intention 
was  to  try  to  cut  away  the  stone  to  such  un 
extent  that  he  could  pass  his  fingers  through 
and  griisp  the  slab.  Ho  began  with  the  mid- 
dle slab.  The  rock  wan  soft  s.andstone  ;  and 
as  he  cut  and  dug  with  his  knife  he  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  that  ho  was  gradu- 
ally working  it  away,  so  that  he  had  the 


prospect  in  time  of  making  a  hole  large 
enough  for  hia  purposes.  But  his  work  was 
slow,  and  ho  discovered  very  soon  that  hia 
knife  was  wearing  away  rapidly  under  it. 
At  length,  when  his  hand  ached  with  the  ef- 
fort, and  was  bleeding  from  blisters,  when  so 
much  of  hia  knife  was  worn  away  that  the 
prospect  of  continuing  much  longer  at  this 
task  was  faint  indeed,  he  discovered  that  the 
tliickness  of  this  particular  slab  was  too 
great  to  give  any  prospect  of  removing  it  in 
this  way. 

Yet  the  moment  that  he  made  this  dia- 
coverj,  he  made  also  another,  which  counter- 
balanced the  first,  and  changed  despair  once 
more  into  hope. 

The  hole  that  ho  had  made,  though  not 
large  enough  to  enable  him  to  remove  the 
slab,  was  still  large  enough  to  assint  him  to 
scale  the  wall.  All  that  he  needed  was  a  few 
others  like  it.  Two  more  would  suffice.  If 
he  could  cut  one  over  each  slab,  even  smaller 
than  this,  he  could  then  climb  up. 

Instantly  he  set  to  work  onco  more,  thia 
time  at  the  lower  slab,  and  here  at  length  ho 
succeeded  in  cutting  a  small  slit  large  enough 
for  him  to  insert  the  toe  of  his  boot.  It  waa 
not  so  large  as  the  first  hole  that  he  had  cut, 
but  suited  his  purpose  quite  as  well. 

He  then  turned  his  attention  to  the  iipper- 
most  sl.ib.  The  others  were  flush  with  the 
wall.  This  one,  jiowever,  projected  in  ono 
corner  about  half  an  inch.  No  cutting  was 
therefore  required,  for  he  could  grasp  this 
with  his  fingers  so  as  to  draw  himself  up  to 
some  extent. 

He  now  prepared  to  ascend.  But  first 
it  was  necessary  to  secure  the  safety  of  his 
lantern.  In  order  to  eflect  thii',  he  tore  up 
his  pocket-handkerchief  and  Lis  cravat  into 
thin  strips,  and  tied  them  all  together  until 
at  length  he  had  a  lino  fifteen  feet  long  at 
least.  One  end  of  this  he  fastened  to  the  lan- 
tern, the  other  he  tied  to  his  knife.  Then  he 
flung  his  knife  up  through  the  opening.  It 
fell  on  the  floor  there,  and  thus  held  the  line 
that  was  fastened  to  the  lantern  below. 

Blake  now  braced  himself  for  this  great 
effort  to  climb  the  waU.  Grasping  the  upper 
slab,  he  put  his  right  foot  in  the  lower  hole, 
and  drew  himself  up  thus  till  he  waa  able  to 
thrust  his  left  foot  into  the  larger  hole  that 
he  had  scraped  away  over  the  middle  slab. 
Here  there  was  a  firmer  foothold,  and  here, 
with  one  vigorous  e*''  ••.,  he  raised  himself  up 


BETRAYED. 


Ill 


higher,  clinging  to  the  upper  slab  with  his 
right  hand,  and  grasping  with  his  left  at  the 
upper  floor,  lie  reached  it,  and,  assisted  by 
his  firm  foothold,  raised  himself  up  higher. 
Then,  with  a  final  spring,  ha  threw  himself 
up,  and,  catching  his  toe  on  the  upper  slab, 
he  succeeded  in  working  himself  through  the 
opening  and  on  to  the  floor  of  the  upper  pas- 
sage-way. Then  ho  drew  up  the  lamp,  and 
put  the  line  in  his  pocket,  so  as  to  use  it  in 
case  of  any  further  need. 

Once  more,  then,  Blake  found  himself  in 
this  upper  passage,  and  now  ho  proceeded  to 
hurry  back  the  way  he  had  come.  In  a  short 
time  he  reached  the  Painted  Chamber.  Here, 
even  if  he  had  felt  any  lingering  doubts  as  to 
O'Rourke's  treachery,  the  first  sight  would 
have  served  to  dispel  them,  and  confirm  his 
worst  suspicions  ;  for  the  chamber  was  emp- 
ty, and  O'Rourke  had  taken  his  ladder  and 
his  string. 

But  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  Ilastc 
was  needed,  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  the 
utmost  caution  was  equally  needed  ;  for  how 
could  he  find  his  way  back  ?  True,  the  path- 
way had  not  been  very  crooked,  and  there- 
fore, if  he  were  to  keep  in  the  straightest 
possible  course,  he  would  be  most  certain  to 
find  the  true  way  ;  yet  still  there  were  places 
where,  among  several  passages  branching  off 
in  the  same  way,  it  would  be  difficult  to  tell 
the  true  one.  But,  until  that  place  was 
reached,  he  might  hurry  on  with  less  circum- 
spection. 

Accordingly,  he  advanced  as  fast  as  a  vigi- 
lant outlook  would  allow  him,  and  for  some 
time  had  no  difficulty.  At  length,  to  his  in- 
tense joy,  he  discovered  something  on  the 
floor.  On  stooping  to  examine  it,  he  found 
that  it  was  the  clew.  O'Rourke  had  appar- 
ently gone  back,  winding  it  up  as  he  went ; 
but  at  length,  becoming  perhaps  weary  of 
this,  and  feeling  certain  of  the  destruction  of 
his  victim,  he  had  contemptuously  thrown  it 
down. 

Blake  now  hurried  on  faster  than  ever, 
with  nothing  to  prevent  the  most  rapid  prog- 
ress, since  he  was  guided  by  the  string  that 
ran  along  the  path.  Before  long,  he  came  to 
the  ladder,  which  lay  obliquely  across  the 
path,  as  if  carelessly  flung  down  by  one  who 
was  weary  of  carrying  it,  and  had  no  further 
need  of  it.  This  ladder  was  of  no  use,  how- 
ever, to  Blake,  though  a  short  time  before  all 
his  life  seemed  to  depend  upon  it;  so  he  hur- 


ried on,  seeing  in  it  only  a  sign  that  ho  might 
yet  reach  the  house  before  O'Rouvke  had  left. 

On  he  went,  faster  and  faster.  At  length, 
the  clew  ended.  Blake  recognized  this  place. 
It  was  at  that  first  crossing  to  which  they  had 
come,  and  beyond  this  ho  knew  that  there 
were  no  other  crossings  till  he  reached  the 
aperture  by  which  he  had  entered.  To  arrive 
at  this  point,  at  last,  was  almost  like  an  es- 
cape ;  but  still  his  escape  was  not  yet  effect- 
ed, and  so  he  hurried  onward.  The  aperture 
for  which  he  was  now  looking  was  on  his  left, 
and,  as  he  went,  he  watched  that  side  nar- 
rowly. 

At  last  he  saw  it. 

All  the  other  slabs  were  in  their  places, 
but  this  one  was  off.  It  lay  on  the  ground 
below.  The  aperture  was  all  dark.  Blake 
sprung  toward  it,  and  thrust  in  his  lamp  and 
his  head. 

The  next  moment  he  stood  there,  rooted 
to  the  spot,  staring  with  wild  eyes  at  the  sight 
before  him,  while  a  new  despair  deprived  him 
of  strength  and  almost  of  consciousness. 

For  there,  full  before  him,  in  the  place 
where  that  opening  had  been  through  which 
he  had  crawled  after  O'Rourke,  was  now  a 
wall  of  stone,  presenting  a  barrier  which 
stopped  all  escape.  There  were  two  large 
stones.  They  had  been  pushed  up  here  from 
within — by  the  malignant  ond  relentless  pur- 
pose of  his  enemy — not  fastened  'rith  cement, 
but  lying  there  solid,  irremovable,  and  be- 
yond the  reach  of  any  efforts  of  his. 

At  this  sight  he  reached  the  last  extremity 
of  his  prostration  and  of  his  despair.  The 
lamp  fell  from  his  hands  into  the  stony  sepul- 
chre, and  he  burst  into  a  torrent  of  tears. 

And  now,  at  this  moment,  while  his  lamp 
lay  extinguished,  and  all  around  there  was  a 
durkucss  utter  and  impenetrable — a  dark- 
ness, also,  fully  commensurate  with  the  dark- 
ness of  his  despair — there  came  to  his  ears 
a  dull  sound  from  beyond  that  wall,  as  if 
some  one  was  moving  there. 

At  once  Blake  roused  himself,  and  lis- 
tened. 

The  sounds  continued.  Some  one  was 
moving.  There  was  the  rattling,  shufiling 
sound  as  of  some  one  piling  up  stones,  it 
was  as  though  O'Rourke  had  not  been  satis- 
fied with  any  common  barrier  to  Blake's  es- 
cape, but  had  resolved  to  replace  the  whole 
wall  in  all  its  thickness,  and  leave  it  as  he 
had  found  it.     There,  then,  was  his  enemy, 


us 


AS   OPEN  QUESTION. 


within  a  fow  feet,  yet  inacccssiltle  and  invis- 
iljle — not  remorseful  for  wiiat  lie  liiid  done, 
but  actively  malignant  still,  and  still  toiling 
to  occomplisli,  in  its  fullest  perfection,  the 
terrible  task  which  he  had  undertaken. 

Ulake  listened  in  dumb  horror,  unable  to 
speak  a  word,  even  if  words  had  been  of  any 
avail.  But  no  words  were  forthcoming,  and 
be  leaned  there  in  that  thick  darkness,  cling- 
ing to  the  sepulchre  with  a  convulsive  gra?p, 
and  all  his  soul  centred  in  his  sense  of  iicar- 
ing.  That  sense  seemed  now  to  have  taken 
nn  almost  superhuman  power  and  acutencs?, 
03  though  all  bis  other  senses  had  lent  their 
aid  to  this.  The  rattle,  the  sliding,  the  dull 
thud,  t".jv>  harsh  grating  of  the  stones  as  they 
were  handled  by  the  terrible  workman  on  tlic 
other  side,  still  went  on ;  and  still  the  sounds 
penetrated  the  wall,  and  came  to  the  silent 
place  of  the  dead  beyond. 

Blake  listened,  unconscious  of  time,  and 
only  conscious  of  the  slow  approach  of  his 
appalling  doom. 

At  last  all  ceased. 

Then  there  came  the  sound  of  a  human 
voice — low,  mufllcd,  sepulchral,  but,  to  Blake's 
acute  bearing,  sounding  with  terrific  distinct- 
ness. There  were  but  four  words  that  thus 
came  to  his  ears  tlirough  the  thick  wall 
where  the  stones  stood,  piled  up  without 
plaster,  and  allowing  the  awful  words  to  pass 
through  • 

"  £lake  Wyveme,  farewell  forever  I " 

Then  all  was  still. 


CnAPTER  xxvir. 


FILIAL  AFFECTION. 


The  time  passed  pleasantly  indeed  with 
Bernal  Mordaunt.  The  worn-out  man  felt 
this  rest  to  be  sweet  after  his  weary  life ;  and 
it  was  sweeter  slill,  after  so  ni.iny  years  of 
loneliness  and  exile  and  wandering,  to  find 
around  him  once  more  the  tender  embrace  of 
kindred  and  of  afTection.  In  his  far-distant 
home,  as  missionary,  the  Abbe  Mordaunt  had 
not  been  without  those  lofty  consolations 
which  the  active  performance  oi  a  high  duty, 
and  zealous  labor  for  the  good  of  man,  and 
fervent  faith,  can  give  to  the  soul,  even  when 
all  earthly  joys  have  been  torn  from  its  grasp ; 
but  such  labors  and  such  zeal  were  only  pos- 
Bible  in  the  days  of  his  vigorous  manhood. 


Now,  when  vigor  iiud  gone,  and  such  apostolic 
labors  were  no  longer  possiljlo,  bis  heart 
yearned  for  some  close  human  tie,  and  some 
tender  human  affection.  For  this  cause  Le 
had  thought  of  his  daughters,  and  had  come 
home  to  find  them.  One  was  gone,  but  one 
was  left ;  and  that  heart  of  his,  which  had 
so  long  been  destitute  of  the  treasures  of 
human  love,  now  expanded,  and  filled  itself 
with  that  tender  aflection  which  was  lav- 
ished by  her  whom  be  called  "  his  own,"  "  his 
only  one,"  "  his  darling  daughter,"  "  his  most 
precious  Inez." 

In  spite  of  nil  his  deep  yearning  for  this 
filial  love,  Bernal  Mordaunt  was  not  exacting; 
and  it  has  been  seen  how  carefully  he  tried  to 
avoid  standing  between  Bessie  and  one  whom 
he  sujiposed  to  be  the  object  of  tenderer  and 
stronger  affections  than  any  which  she  coidd 
bestow  upon  himself.  It  has  been  seen  also 
how  Bessie  frustrated  his  self-denying  plans, 
and  met  this  sacrifice  of  love,  by  another  sac- 
rifice of  love  on  her  part,  and  refused  to  ac- 
cord to  Sir  Gwyn  any  privileges  which  miglit 
draw  her  away  from  Bernal  Mordaunt.  This 
Bernal  Mordaunt  felt  more  than  any  thing 
that  had  occurred  since  his  return  home.  He 
believed  that  it  must  be  a  sacrifice  on  her 
part;  yet  in  his  secret  soul  lie  exulted  over 
such  a  sacrifice,  since  it  had  been  made  for 
his  sake.  lie  deprecated  it  as  greatly  as  he 
could  to  her,  but  Bessie  met  such  deprecatory 
language  in  a  way  of  her  own  which  was  thor- 
oughly characteristic,  by  the  profession  of 
still  greater  love,  and  by  the  declaration  that 
she  would  give  herself  up  altogether  to  him, 
and  for  his  sake  cut  herself  off  from  all  soci- 
ety. This,  however,  Bernal  Mordaunt  did  not 
wish  her  to  do.  In  his  love  for  her,  he  re- 
garded not  only  her  present  but  her  future, 
and  he  was  not  selfish  enough  to  permit  his 
own  happinc;  "  to  stand  in  the  way  of  what  ho 
considered  her  permanent  good.  The  regard 
which  he  had  from  the  first  conceived  for 
Sir  (!wyn  lluthven  had  steadily  increased 
with  the  progress  of  their  acquaintance  ;  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  Sir  Gwyn  was  in  every 
respect  a  man  to  whom  he  miglit  gladly  in- 
trust the  daughter  whom  he  loved  so  fondly, 
and  for  whose  future  welfare  ho  was  so  soli- 
citous. 

Sleanwhile,  Sir  Gwyn,  though  full  of  a  sin- 
cere and  devoted  regard  for  Bernal  Mordaunt, 
had  not  by  any  means  lost  sight  of  the  great 
aim  of  his  present  life.    Bessie,  in  her  new 


I'lLIAL   AFFECTION. 


118 


1  npostolio 
lii'f  liciirt 
IniiJ  sorao 
I  cause  lie 
Diad  come 
K  but  one 
[liiuh  had 
Jisuros  of 
jled  itsolf 
1  was  lav- 
'"his 


rule  of  affoctionate  daugliler,  appeared  to  him 
to  be  more  charming  than  ever.  It  iietHled 
but  tliis  to  complete  her  charuia  in  h'm  eye.-f, 
and  to  tranaform  her  iuto  nu  iiagel.  AVhal 
waa  best,  tho  cordiality  and  evident  regard 
which  Bernal  Mordauut  always  exhibited  tow- 
ard himself  had  placed  him  upon  a  footing  of 
Comiliar  and  intimate  friendship,  and  thus  en- 
abled him  to  see  to  the  best  advantage  the 
tender,  the  incessant,  tho  self-denying  care 
of  Bessie  for  the  old  man.  Still,  in  spite  of 
this  surrender  of  herself,  Uessie  was  not  sep- 
arated from  him ;  in  fact,  she  appeared  to  be 
drawn  nearer  to  him,  and  never  had  Sir  Gwyn 
more  profoundly  enjoyed  himself,  liernal 
Morddunt  himself  was  -willing  to  favor  the 
lovers  in  every  possible  way  ;  and  often,  when 
Bessie  would  not  leave  him,  he  pretended  to 
be  asleep,  so  us  to  leave  an  open  Held  to  Sir 
llwyn.  At  other  times  ho  would  occupy  him- 
self with  reading,  and  watch  those  two  wlm 
were  both  so  dear  to  liiin,  witli  a  quiet  smile, 
which  showed  with  what  tender  human  sym- 
pathy he  noticed  tlie  progress  of  all'airs. 

Bessie  showed  herself  in  all  respects  a 
daughter  beyond  all  praise.  She  walked  with 
the  old  man,  making  him  lean  on  her  slender 
arm ;  she  read  to  him  all  the  daily  papers ; 
she  assisted  in  finding  out  what  books  he  pre^ 
ferred ;  and  used  to  sit  at  his  feet  on  a  low 
stool  reading  to  him  for  hours,  while  he  rest- 
ed his  hand  on  her  golden  hair,  and  watched 
her  with  a  look  of  unspeakable  love.  Slie 
was  (piick  to  discover  that  he  liked  her  con- 
versation, and  was  amused  with  her  little  Ili- 
bcrnicisms,  and  occasional  outcropping  of  the 
brogue  which  distinguished  it;  and  so  she 
took  pains  every  day  to  have  some  amusing 
story  to  tell  him,  and  to  tell  it  too  in  her 
oddest  manner,  with  her  oddest  idioms,  well 
satisfied  if  she  could  succeed  in  raising  a  laugh 
at  the  point  of  this  ."^tory,  which  she  took  good 
care  to  introduce  always  in  the  most  efleetive 
way.  When  local  events  failed,  she  would 
fall  back  upon  her  early  reminiscences,  and 
these  were  invariably  of  so  grotesque  a  kind 
that  Ucrnal  Mordauut  relished  them  more 
than  any  thing  else. 

Bernal  Mordauut  thus  was  happy — more 
truly  and  c  ilmly  happy  than  he  had  been  for 
years.  It  was  not,  indeed,  so  elevated  a  sen- 
timent as  some  ivliich  he  had  known  during 
his  active  missionary  life;  not  that  high  spir- 
itual rapture  whieh  had  sometimes  visited  his 
soul ;  yet  it  was  true  happiness,  tender  and 
8 


human  and  domestic,  a  feeling  well  deserved, 
and  well  bclitting  the  man  whom  years  and 
nard  labor  and  sorrow  had  enfeebled.  For, 
in  spite  of  tho  calm  and  quiet  lil'c  into  whicli 
ho  had  passed ;  iu  spito  of  tho  pure  and  iuvig< 
orating  air;  in  spite  of  his  own  peace  of  mind 
and  happiness  ;  iu  .spite  even  of  the  incessant 
and  vigilant  and  most  tender  eare  of  the  de- 
voted Bessie,  Bernal  Mordaunt's  health  did 
not  improve,  but,  on  the  contrary,  strange  as 
it  may  ajjpear,  from  the  moment  that  ho  camo 
to  .Morduunt  Manor,  his  health  and  strength 
gradually  yet  steadily  failed.  There  was  no 
visible  cause  for  thi.-".  Every  thing  around 
him  seemed  adapted  to  build  up  a  w-eakencd 
constitution,  and  give  tone  and  vigor  to  aa 
eni'eebled  frame,  yet  still  there  was  the  mys- 
terious  fact,  and  Bernal  Mordaunt  himself 
knew  it  and  felt  it,  accepting  if,  however,  with 
solemn  and  placid  resignation  as  the  inevi- 
table will  of  Heaven. 

One  morning,  as  ho  and  Bessie  were  to- 
gether, Sir  Gwyn  found  them,  and  after  a 
short  time  Bessie  meekly  withdrew.  Ber- 
nal Mordaunt  was  struck  by  this  occurrence, 
whieh  was  quite  singular,  for  Bessie  had  al- 
ways chosen  to  remain  on  former  occasions  ; 
but  at  length  it  was  explained,  for  Sir  Gwyn, 
with  all  the  embarrassment  whieh  is  usual  iu 
such  cases,  proceeded  to  inform  Iiim  that  he 
had  come  to  ask  his  daughter's  hand. 

The  reception  of  this  request  was  all  that 
Sir  Gwyn  could  have  desired.  Bernal  Mor- 
daunt pressed  the  young  man's  hand,  and 
looked  at  him  earuestly,  with  moistened  eyes. 

"  My  dear  Gwyn,"  said  he,  addressing  him 
in  the  familiar  style  which  the  young  man  had 
himself  requested  that  he  would  use — "my 
dear  Gwyn,  tho  object  (  y  learest  regard 
on  earth  is  my  sweet  dau^  '  ■-.  Inez,  and  her 
future  happiness.  You  know  how  dear  she 
is  to  me,  and  how  I  live  in  her  presence.  You 
know,  too,  what  a  heart  of  love  she  has — how 
tender  she  is,  how  true,  how  devoted,  how 
forgetful  of  self.  I  never  cease  to  thank 
Heaven  for  the  mercy  bestowed  upon  one  so 
undeserving  as  I  am,  in  the  gift  of  an  angel 
upon  earth,  to  be  my  daughter,  to  love  me,  to 
tend  me,  to  devote  herself  to  mc,  as  she  does. 
But  still  I  am  not  forgetful  of  the  future,  my 
boy  ;  and  I  know  that  the  best  thing  for  her 
to  win  is  tho  heart  of  a  brave,  loyal  gentle- 
man, who  may  be  her  protector  through  life. 
I  hi  vc  seen  all  this  in  you,  Gwyn,  my  dear 
boy,  and  I  am  happy  iu  the  thought  that  you 


:i 


S14 


AN  OPEN'   (iUESTIO.V. 


i 


i'  li 


i   i 


y<'  %. 


love  Lev;  and,  if  you  can  >vin  her  love,  you 
liuvo,  not  only  my  consent,  but  uiy  grateful 
and  earnest  good  wishes.  You  liavc  my  con- 
sent, (Jwyn,  and  more — vou  liavo  my  most 
nllcctionutu  Bynipatliies ;  I'ur  i^  will  give  mo 
Biucere  happiness  to  receive  you  a:  my  son." 

Gwyu  was  quite  overeonio  at  suth  a  re- 
ception of  his  request,  and  murmured  some 
words  of  acknowledgment.  Tlicrc  was  evi- 
dently something  on  Lis  mind,  however  -,  und 
tLis,  after  <".uje  further  conversation,  all  came 
out. 

"  1  had  to  ask  this  first,"  said  ho  ;  "  but 
I've  got  something  tisc  that  I'm  anxious  to 
tell  you,  before  this  goes  any  further.  It's 
something  tliat  you  ought  to  know,  and  I 
ought  to  tell.     It's  about  my  own  all'airs.'' 

Bcrnal  Morduunt  at  this  looked  at  Lim 
with  a  pleasant  smile  of  encouragement. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Gwyn,  "  there's  some 
difficulty  in  my  present  position,  some  uncer- 
tainty as  to  my  right,  not  only  to  my  title, 
but  also  to  my  estate.  I  will  explain.  I  am 
the  ;oiingcst  of  three  brothers.  3Iy  eldest 
brother  died  a  few  years  ago,  leaving  uo  heirs. 
Now,  between  me  and  him  tlierc  w.is  a  second 
brother ;  and  it  is  this  one  'hat  makes  my 
present  position  uncertain.  About  ten  years 
ago,  he  vanished,  lie  li''^u  in  Paris  when  ho 
was  last  heard  from.  lie  hud  been  very  dis- 
sipated. As  the  second  son,  he  had  no  pros- 
pects ;  and  the  wild  life  which  Lc  had  lived 
Lad  already  exhausted  what  my  father  had 
allowed  him.  There  was  some  talk  of  a  hasty 
marriage  that  he  had  made  with  sonic  grisdte 
or  some  unworthy  creature,  lie  that  as  it 
may,  he  vanished,  and  has  never  been  heard 
of  since. 

"  Well,  you  know,  my  elder  brother  died, 
as  I  Lave  said  ;  and,  as  my  second  brother 
was  not  to  be  found,  I  came  in  for  the  ii.heri- 
tancc.  As  to  my  second  brother,  I  have  heard 
various  rumors.  Some  say  tliat  he  committed 
suicide ;  other.s,  that  he  died  in  extreme  pov- 
erty in  Genoa;  others,  that  he  went  to  India, 
and  died  there.  But,  among  all  these  rumors, 
BO  proof  has  ever  been  brought  forward  that 
Le  is  dead.  He  may  be  living  yet,  and  tLc 
only  actual  proof  that  I  can  adduce  in  favor 
of  Lis  death  is  tlie  improbability  of  any  man 
in  needy  circumstances  allowing  a  great  in- 
Leritaiice  to  pass  into  other  hands,  when  ho 
Las  only  to  come  forward  to  claim  it.  At  tLc 
same  time,  I  know  this,  t'ui  Le  was  always 
different  from   otLer  men ;   and,  if  Le  Lad 


chanced  to  bo  engaged  in  f<oiuc  mode  of  lifo 
that  suited  his  ta.stcs  for  the  time,  Lc  would 
let  the  inheritance  ]ias8,  and  not  come  forward 
till  it  sidted  him  to  do  f<>.  As  to  my  elder 
brother's  death,  he  must  h.ive  heard  of  that, 
for  it  was  mentioned  in  all  the  papers  at  the 
time,  and,  wl'.at  is  more,  notices  of  it  were  iu> 
scrtcd  in  tlic  leading  journals  on  the  Conti- 
nent and  in  America,  i^o,  you  hcc,  as  it  is 
possible  that  ho  may  be  alive,  it  is  also  pos- 
sible that  I  may  not  be  the  rightful  owner  of 
the  Ituthven  estates ;  and,  if  ho  should  over 
appear,  I  should  have  to  give  them  all  up  to 
him.  The  jirobability  of  his  appearance  is 
certaiidy  somewhat  remote,  but  still  1  thought 
it  my  duty  to  oxplaii;  tliis  matter." 

To  all  this  Bernal  Mordaunt  listened  with 
a  pleasant  smile. 

"  -My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  as  Gwyn  '  hed, 
"  I  am  grateful  to  you  fcr  your  Iran  ii.d 

for  your  conlidcncc.     At  the  sam  \U 

this  makes  not  the  sligjitest  difl'crcnce  m  my 
feelings.  \Vhen  I  accepted  the  proposal  which 
you  uiadc,  it  was  not  tlic  baronet  that  I  rc- 
gaidod,  or  the  heir  of  the  Uuihvcn  estates, 
but  the  young  man  Gwyn  Kulhven,  whom  I 
consider  as  a  noble-hearted  and  loyal  gentle- 
man, and  whom  I  esteem,  not  for  what  he  has, 
but  for  what  Le  ta.  I  assure  you  that  it  makes 
no  diQereiice  to  me  whether  you  are  rich  or 
poor.  TLe  life  that  I  have  lived,  and  the 
principles  that  have  animated  mc,  have  all 
caused  me  to  regard  riches  as  of  less  im- 
portance than  the  world  supposes.  Inez  has 
Mordaunt  Manor;  and,  it  you  should  be 
stripped  of  every  thing,  this  would  remain, 
and  this  would  be  enough,  i^o  do  not  let  any 
considerations  of  this  sort  interfere  with  you" 
Lopes  and  plans.  If  you  love  Lcr,  go  and 
try  to  win  Lcr.  If  she  accepts  you,  I  give 
you  my  blessing,  liut,  as  for  this  aiissing 
brother  of  whom  you  speak,  of  course  you 
have  duties  there,  which  I  am  sure  you  Lave 
already  tried  to  fulfil." 

"  You  arc  right,"  said  Gwyn,  earnestly ; 
"  I  Lave  tried  to  find  Lim.  I  have  sent  out 
notices,  and  Lave  even  commuiucatcd  witli 
tLe  police  in  Paris,  in  Vienna,  in  New  York, 
and  in  several  otLer  places.  If  Le  is  alive, 
tLe  place  is  Lis,  and  I  am  ready  to  give  it 
up." 

"  My  boy,"  said  Bernal  Morduunt,  in  tones 
more  tender  than  any  which  Le  Lad  ever,  tLus 
far,  used  to  Cwyn,  "  once  upon  a  time,  many 
ycirs  ogo,  y  ur  fatLcr  and  I  mode  an  agree- 


I'IMAL  Arj-'KCTIO.V. 


115 


I  lie  of  lifo 
lie  would 

30  /'orwarU 

'  my  t'lJcr 
|J  or  that, 

era  ot  thu 

Jit  wcro  ill- 

lllio  Couti- 

|(--,  a.s  it  in 

also  pos- 

owner  of 
lould  ever 

uU  up  to 
taranco  is 

I  1  tll0U''llt 


rnent.  Wo  wore  very  old  friend.-'.  Wo  were 
boys  together.  Wo  wrio  togcllier  iit  Ktoii, 
at  Miigdalen  College,  Oxford,  and  in  the  siime 
reginieiit  in  the  arn)y  for  a  few  years.  We 
married  at  about  the  dume  lime.  I  lived  hero, 
ho  in  I,(;n(Ion;  but,  though  our  fiiiiilifs  wore 
tcparatod,  he  and  I  Haw  very  much  of  one  an- 
other, and  kept  up  our  fiifud.diip.  I  reniera- 
bcr  your  brothers.  <in  my  last  visit  to  Lou- 
don, where  hi*  duties  kept  lilni  for  tlic  greater 
part  of  the  year,  they  were  at  home — Bruce 
and  Kane,  lino,  maidy  boys,  though  Ilruco  was 
not  much  to  my  taste.  It  was  Kane  that  I 
admired.  You,  Gvvyn,  must  have  been  a 
baby.  I  didn't  see  you.  Vour  father  and  I 
■were  speaking  of  our  ehiUlren.  He  had  only 
Bons ;  I  had  oidy  daughters.  Wo  thought 
that  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  cue  of  bis 
sons  should  marry  oue  of  my  daughters,  and 
tlius  join  those  two  noble  estates.  We  talked 
it  over  with  enthusiasm,  and  wo  both  agreed 
tliat  it  would  be  too  desirable  a  thing  to  neg- 
lect; a;id  we  parted  with  the  wish  that  it 
luiglit  eventually  result  in  this.  Alas !  man 
proposes,  but  God  disposes:  our  Uvea  were 
strangely  altered  from  what  we  autioipatod, 
and  I  never  saw  liira  again.  But  in  you,  my 
dear  boy,  I  see  him ;  and,  when  I  first  saw 
you  wiih  Diy  sweet  Inez,  I  could  not  help 
wishing  that  the  old  hope  of  yoai'S  ago  might 
be  fulfdled  in  you  and  her.  Still,  you  must 
remember  that  it  is  not  the  union  of  the  es- 
tates that  I  now  regard ;  those  things  I  con- 
sider as  of  small  im])ortance,  in  comparison 
with  the  welfare  of  my  sweet  Inez.  As  to 
your  brother,  ii'  there  is  any  mode  of  search 
that  you  can  yet  think  of,  you  had  better  try 
it. — And  that  was  the  end  of  poor  Kano  ? 
And  such  a  noble  boy !  Poor  lad !  poor,  poor 
lad  I " 

"You  may  rely  upon  it,"  said  Gwyn,  "  if 
there  is  any  conceivable  way  by  which  I  may 
hear  of  him,  I  will  make  use  of  it." 

"  I  know  that,  of  course,  my  boy,"  said 
Bernal  Mordaunt,  kindly. 

After  tliis  there  was  a  new  tenderness  on 
Bernal  Mordaunt's  part  toward  Bessie,  wliieh 
also  citended  itself  to  Gwyn.  The  two  young 
people  had  evidently  come  to  an  understand- 
ing; and  Bernal  Mordaunt,  in  all  his  words 
and  looks,  showed  plainly  that  he  was  well 
pleased  for  this  to  be  bo. 

"  Gwyn,  ray  dear  boy,"  said  he,  one  day, 
taking  advantage  of  an  occasion  on  which 
they  happened  to  be  alone,  "  I  wish  to  ."(peak 


to  you  about  that  subject  wliieh  we  were  dis- 
cussing the  other  day.  You  know  how  dear 
to  my  lieart  is  the  welfare  of  my  beloved 
Inoz.  Kvery  day  I  thii.'k  of  it  more  and 
more,  and  all  the  mure  as  I  foel  that  my  own 
end  is  approaching." 

"  t)  sir  1"  began  Gwyn  ;  but  Bernal  Mor- 
daunt checked  him. 

"  Xo,  no,"  said  he,  "  I  know  well  what 
you  wish  to  say,  but  it  is  not  neccssarj'.  Jle- 
iiove  me,  my  own  feelings  in  this  matter  are 
a  sure  guide.  .See  how  it  is  witli  mo.  See 
how  much  weaker  I  now  ain  than  I  was  when 
you  lirst  knew  mo.  I  came  home  somewhat 
broken  in  health,  it  is  true,  yet  still  not  so 
much  invalided  but  that  1  might  indulge  in  a 
reasonable  hope  of  recovery.  I  had  worked 
hard  an  I  ullere<l  much,  yet  not  more  so  than 
many  oi  my  brethren  in  the  same  holy  cause. 
Under  ordinary  circumstances  I  might  hope 
for  a  complete  restoration  to  Iicaltli  from  a 
return  to  Europe.  Indeed,  the  voyage  home 
proved  wonderfully  bonelicial,  so  much  so 
that,  when  I  reached  Koine,  I  was  congratu- 
lated by  every  one  on  my  vigor  and  energy.  I 
went  to  Paris  and  to  London,  and  ray  health 
continued  to  improve  in  spile  of  bad  news 
which  I  heard,  and  distressing  doubts,  and 
greit  fatigue.  When  I  came  here  I  felt 
strong. 

"  Yet  all  these  hopes  which  I  had  formed 
of  renewed  health  and  prolonged  life,  it  has 
pleased  Heaven  to  make  of  no  avail.  It  may 
be  that  the  purpose  which  lay  before  me 
called  forth  certain  latent  energies,  the  exer- 
cise of  which  was  beneficial ;  and  that,  when 
all  was  gained,  and  there  was  liothing  more 
to  work  for,  the  cessation  of  the  play  of 
these  energies  threw  rae  back  upon  my- 
self, and  left  me  to  sink  helplessly  into  this 
weakness  where  I  now  find  myself.  I  put  it 
in  this  way,  for  I  know  no  other  way  in  which 
I  may  account  for  it,  yet  still,  whatever  be  the 
cause,  it  is  a  fact  that,  since  my  return  to 
Mordaunt  Manor,  I  have  grown  steadily  worse 
and  worse  every  day.  At  this  moment  I  feel 
a  profound  weakness  and  a  failure  of  vital 
power,  which  I  am  sure  must  soon  have  a 
fatal  result.  There  is  no  help  for  it.  You 
know,  for  you  have  seen,  how  tenderly,  how 
assiduously,  how  devotedly,  my  sweet  Inez 
has  nursed  me  and  cared  for  me.  My  very 
food  comes  from  her  hands.  Her  deep  love 
for  me  will  allow  no  other  hands  than  her 
own  to  prepare  certain  little  dainties  which 


pr 


m  I 


116 


AX  OPEN  QUESTION. 


she  knows  I  like.  She  watches  me  night  and 
day.  She  hovers  around  me  iaecsaantly.  And 
yet,  what  can  she  do  ?  If  tcndcrest  love  could 
restore  me,  hers  would  do  it;  but,  as  it  is, 
Gwyn" — and  Bernal  Mordaunt's  face  assumed 
a  look  which  afterward  haunted  Gwyn  for 
many  a  day — "  as  it  is,  it  really  sccma  as  if 
all  her  fond  care  and  all  her  assiduous  atten- 
tion only  served  to  draw  me  down  more  sur  ly 
to  death. 

"And  now,  Gwyn,  my  dear  boy,"  ho  con- 
tinued, after  a  ^uuso,  "  what  I  wish  lo  say  is 
this :  My  days  I  feel  are  numbered.  I  must 
soon  leave  her ;  but,  before  I  go,  it  is  the 
or.e  desire  of  my  heart  to  see  her  future  se- 
cured ;  to  see  her,  in  short,  under  your  pro- 
tection before  she  loses  mine.  I  mention 
this,  my  dear  boy,  because  I  have  it  so  inueh 
at  heart,  and  because  it  really  seems  to  ir.o 
that,  if  this  were  accomplished,  I  should  die 
content.  Will  you  noi,  try  to  do  what  you 
can  to  persuade  her  to  grant  this  desire  of 
the  father  whom  she  loves  so  tenderly  ?  " 

"  Oh,  come,"  said  Gwyn,  "  I  real!/  think 
you  take  too  desponding  a  v'.ew  of  things, 
and,  as  to  what  you  mention,  I'm  sure  I'd  give 
my  eyes  if  I  could  only  induce  her  to  consent. 
Perhaps,  if  you  mentioned  it  to  her,  she  might 
be  more  willing  to  listci  to  me." 

"  I  think  I  had  better  do  so,"  said  Bernal 
Mordaunt,  thoughtfully. 


CILVrTER  XXVIII. 


SELF-SACRIFICE. 


I« 


The  matter  upon  which  Pcrnal  Moi-dnunt 
had  spoken  to  Sir  Gwyn  waa  one  which  had 
been  prominent  in  hh  thougl>ts  before,  and 
remained  af'erwavd  a  subject  of  still  more 
absorbing  importance.  Jlis  deep  love  fur  his 
daughter  forced  him  to  dwell  upon  this  idea; 
and  the  more  he  felt  his  own  inceaaing 
weakness,  the  more  anxious  he  w.s  to  secure 
his  daughter's  future  before  hf,  jhould  leave 
her  fo'evcr.  All  that  be  ha('i  said  to  Sir 
Gwyn  ho  felt  to  be  tiiio.  It  was  true  that 
his  health  had  improved  after  leaving  the 
E.''st,  and  that  he  had  constantly  gained 
strength  up  to  that  moment  wlien  he  had 
reached  Mordaunt  Manor.  It  was  truo  that, 
since  that  time,  a  change  had  taken  place  for 
tho  worst,  and  that  ever  since  ho  had  steadily 
and  uniiitcrraptedly  grown  weaker ;  and,  con- 


sequently, if  ho  looked  forward  to  the  worst, 
and  confidently  expected  that  death  alono 
could  end  this,  he  was  justilied  in  his  opin- 
ion. What  might  be  the  cause  of  this  change 
for  the  worse  Bernal  Mordaunt  hhnsclf  did 
not  know.  It  might  be  supposed  that  the 
pleasant  surroundings  of  home,  the  perfect 
rest  and  calm,  and,  above  all,  tho  unwearied 
attentions  of  Bessie,  would  have  had  nothing 
l)ut  a  beneficial  effect  upon  him ;  yet  Bernal 
Mordaunt  had  plainly  stated  his  belief  that 
they  had  produced  upon  him  an  ciTcct  which 
was  the  very  opposite. 

But  his  daughter's  future  was  now  tlio 
chief  thing  upon  his  mind,  and  soon  he  felt 
too  impatient  to  postpone  any  further  tho 
arrangement  which  ho  longed  to  have  made. 

"  My  dearest  Inez,"  said  he,  one  evening, 
after  Sir  Gwyn  h.A  left  them,  "  there  is  some- 
thing that  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  about." 

"  What  is  it,  papa  dear  ?  "  said  Bessie. 

They  were  alone  together — he  in  an  arm- 
chair, she  on  a  stool  at  his  feet — and,  as  he 
spoke,  she  put  her  little  hand  in  his.  Do 
pressed  it  between  his  own,  and  went  on  : 

"  It  concerns  you,  my  dearest  Inez,  and 
is,  therefore,  the  fondest  wish  of  my  heart. 
You  see  how  I  am  now  and  how  I  have  been, 
dear,  since  my  return  home.  T  grow  weakjr 
and  wi  akcr  every  day,  and  I  cannot  hdp 
looking  forward  to  tho  time  when  I  shall 
have  to  leave  you." 

"  Leave  me,  papa  dearest  ?  Why,  what 
do  you  'nean  ?  What  arc  you  going  to  Ic.avp 
me  for  ?  Aie  you  tired  of  me  ?  Are  tou 
going  back  to  those  horrid  Chinamen  and 
Turks  ?  You  shall  never  go  near  them,  or, 
if  you  do,  I  will  go  with  you,  so  I  will." 

Bernal  Mordaunt  shook  his  head  mourn- 
fully. 

"  I  meant  a  difl'orenf  journey,  Inez  dar- 
ling," said  he,  •  ind  oro  on  which  no  earthly 
friend,  however  truo  ."nd  loving,  could  ever 
accompany  me.  It  is  a  journey  which  I  and 
you  and  all  must  go  alone,  and  that  journey 
is  nearer,  I  think,  now  than  ever  it  was  be- 
fore ;  and  thla  is  the  journey  that  I  speak  of; 
and  I  do  not  wish  to  go  on  it  until  I  accom- 
plish something  that  is  very  important." 

At  this,  Bessie  r^ithdrcw  her  hand,  and 
clasped  this  and  the  other  together.  Then, 
shrinking  back,  she  fixed  her  large  blue  cyea 
on  Bernal  Mordaunt  witli  a  look  of  fear. 

"  0,  papa  !  "  she  cried.  "  0,  papa  !  dear, 
dearest  papa  t  how  horrid  it  is  for  you  to 


tlic  worst, 
;alh  ulono 
1  Lis  opiu- 
bis  chansre 
limself  (lid 
d  tliat  the 
,hc  perfect 
unwearied 
ad  nothing 
yet  Bernal 
belief  that 
ffcct  which 

s  now  the 
oon  ho  felt 
further  the 
ave  made, 
ne  evening, 
jrc  is  scme- 
nbout." 
il  Bessie, 
in  an  arm- 
-and,  as  he 
in  his.     lie 
cnt  on : 
It  Inez,  and 
if  my  heart. 
[  have  been, 
;row  weak  2r 
;annot  hdp 
hen  I  shall 

Wliy,  what 
ling  to  Icavp 
?  Arc  Tou 
inarncn  and 
ar  thcra,  or, 

:  will." 

lead  raouru- 


y,  Inez  dar- 
h  no  earthly 
;,  could  ever 

which  I  and 
that  journey 
T  it  waa  be- 
t  I  speak  of; 
itil  I  accoin- 
ortant." 
LT  hand,  and 
;ther.  Then, 
rgc  blue  eycfl 

of  fear. 
,  papa !  dear, 
3  for  you  to 


im 


i  ■ 


1:1 


I     'I. 


SELF-SACRIFICE. 


liy 


^ 

Nb 


talk  so!  0,  papa!  wljy  do  you  talk  so? 
0,  papa !  what  makes  jou  eo  cruel  ?  You 
canuot  mean  what  you  say.  It's  false,  so  it 
in.  You're  not  worse,  at  all,  at  all.  Oh,  how 
terrible  it  is  for  you  to  speak  such  words,  and 
sure  but  it's  meself  that's  the  heart-broken 
girl  this  day  !  " 

"  My  dearest  child,"  said  Bernal  Mordaunt, 
leaning  forward  and  placing  Iiis  hand  tenderly 
on  her  golden,  rippling  hair,  "  my  own  Inez, 
these  things  must  be  said.  If  there  is  a  sor- 
row to  como,  it  is  better  to  be  prepared." 

"  But  I  don't  want  any  sorrow  to  come," 
said  Bessie,  "  and  I  ca.n't  bear  it.  If  any 
sorrow  comes,  I'm  sure  I  shall  die." 

Bernal  Mordaunt  sighed.  The  thought  of 
her  loving  and  tender  nature  was  too  much 
for  him.  She  was  so  profound  and  absorbed 
in  her  affection.  How  could  this  slender 
young  girl,  whoso  whole  nature  seemed  made 
up  of  tenderness,  who  lived  only  to  love  or 
be  loved,  bear  the  rude  shock  of  affliction,  of 
bereavement  ? 

"  My  sweet  child,"  said  he,  in  a  tremulous 
voice,  "  Heaven  knows  how  gladly  I  would  do 
any  thing  to  save  you  from  sorrow — how 
gladly  I  vrould  put  myself  between  you  and 
every  possible  evil.  But  such  things  cannot 
be.  and  there  are  none  so  pure  and  so  inno- 
cent but  that  they  must  bear  their  share  of 
tiie  ills  of  our  common  humanity.  If  I  am  to 
leave  you,  and  if  my  loss  gives  you  such  sor- 
row, I  might  almost  regret,  for  your  sake, 
Inez  dearest,  that  I  ever  came  home,  and 
called  forth  so  much  love  from  you,  only  to 
wring  your  tender  heart ;  yet,  for  my  own 
Bake,  I  canuot  hut  rejoice  that  I  have  found 
you  and  known  you,  and  felt  your  tender  love 
before  I  go." 

At  this  Bessie  bowed  herself  down  and 
hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  Ilor  form  trem- 
bled violently,  and  gave  signs  of  deep  emo- 
tion. 

Bernal  Morlaunt  was  himself  overcome 
by  the  sight  of  this,  and  therefore  changed 
the  conversation  to  something  else. 

A  few  days  al'terward,  however,  he  re- 
turned to  the  point,  and  this  time  ho  did  not 
dwell  80  much  upon  that  mournful  theme 
which  proved  so  painful  to  Bessie. 

"  You  see,  my  dearest  Inez,"  said  he, 
after  some  preliminary  explanations,  "  how 
my  heart  is  set  upon  this.  I  really  sulTer 
from  the  thought  that  your  only  protector 
and  guardian  is  a  feeble  old  man.    .Vow,  if 


any  thing  should  happen  to  me,  what  would 
become  of  you  ? " 

"  But  nothing  sh.all  happen  to  you,  papa 
dearest ;  and  if  any  thing  should,  why — why 
— I — I — don't — don't  want  any  thing  to  be- 
come of  me  at  all.  I  waut  to  lie  down  and 
die,  so  I  do,  and  there  you  have  it." 

"  I  know  well  your  devoted  love,  my  owa 
darling  daughter,"  said  Bernal  Mordaunt, 
fondly,  yet  sadly,  "  but  I  am  now  speaking 
about  my  own  feelings.  I  may  be  utterly  in 
the  wrong  about  myself  and  my  health,  as 
you  say  I  am  ;  yet  still  I  feel  this  way.  Kow, 
my  own  child,  you  always  think  of  my  wishes 
and  make  them  your  law.  Do  you  think  that 
you  would  grant  a  request  of  mine  which  lies 
very  near  my  heart  ?  " 

Bessie  looked  up  with  childish  iuno- 
cence. 

"  What  is  it,  papa  dear  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  It  is  this,  my  child :  I  wish  to  see  you 
with  some  protector — less  frail  and  feeble 
than  I  am.  I  might  nominate  a  guardian,  but 
I  know  of  none.  Poor  Wyverne  is  gone. 
Xono  of  my  acquaintances  here  arc  congenial 
I  |it  one;  and  it  is  this  one  under  whoso 
g  ,  irdiauship  I  should  like  to  see  you  before  I 
— before  I  grow  aTiy  worse." 

"Who  is  he  |:\pa,  dear?"  asked  Bessie, 
in  the  most  un.    -.picious  manner. 

"  Our  dear  friend  (Iwyn." 

"Gwyn!"  exclaimed  Bessie,  ''my  guar- 
dian  !  "     She  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"  Yes  my  dearest  Inez.  lie  shall  be  your 
guardian,  the  kind  of  guardian  » liich  his  love 
for  you  and  your  feelings  tov  ;ird  him  would 
make  most  fitting.  In  short,  the  highest  de- 
sire of  my  life  is  to  see  you  his  wife  before  I 
grow  worse." 

At  this  Bessie  buried  hor  Av'  lu  her 
hands,  bowed  down,  and  said  imi   i  «ord. 

"  You  are  betrothed,  why  should  you 
wait?  Why  not  grant  an  old  man's  wish 
when  it  lies  so  near  hit;  heart  ?  This  is  my 
strongest  desire,  Inez  darling.  You  will  not 
refuse  it  when  1  ask  it  so  earnestly.  And  it 
is  nil  for  your  own  sake.  Can  you  decide 
now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  papa !  dear,  dear  papa  !  I  do  so  wish 
that  you  would  get  this  absurd  idea  out  of 
your  head." 

"  It's  my  wish,  dearest  Inez,"  said  Mor- 
daunt, earnestly. 

"  Oh,  papa  dear,  how  you  do  put  things  I 
You  know  how  oa''iM'  I  always  am  to  do  even 


118 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


E 


Hi 


the  slightest  little  thing  that  you  want  me  to, 
but  this  is  like  asking  inc  to  depcrt  you,  and 
how  can  I  possibly  do  that  ?  No,  papa — my 
own  papa — I  know  that  poor  dear  Gwyn  is 
awfully  fond  of  me,  and  I  like  him  too,  and  I 
have  told  him  so  ;  but  if  it  comes  to  Icaying 
you,  papa  dearest-,  why  I  won't,  .ind  I'd  give 
him  up  bcforo  you,  so  I  would,  and  there  you 
have  it." 

Saying  this,  I?es»io  seized  Mordauut's 
hands,  and,  hiding  her  face  in  them,  she 
covered  them  with  kisses.  Tears  stood  in 
Mordaunt's  eyes  ;  the  devotion  of  this  daugh- 
ter was  wonderful.  His  father's  heart  yearned 
over  her  with  inexpressible  tenderness ;  and 
yet  out  of  that  very  tenderness  he  still  was 
firm  in  his  resolve  to  exert  ail  his  power  to 
bring  the  marriage  about.  It  was  for  her 
sake.  Should  he  die,  the  marriage  would  be 
postponed  for  a  long  time,  and  during  such  a 
postponement  it  might  be  prevented  altogeth- 
er by  some  casualty. 

All  this  he  pointed  out  to  Bessie,  and,  to- 
gether with  this,  he  brought  forward  other 
persuasives,  but  urged  most  of  all  his  own 
wish,  which,  whether  reasonable  or  unrea- 
sonable, was  so  set  upon  this  that  a  disap- 
pointment would  grieve  him  sorely.  One  by 
one  Bessie's  objections  and  scruples,  and 
they  wore  mary,  were  argued  away  or  set 
aside,  and  at  last  she  had  no  other  resource 
than  to  assent.  Yet,  even  then,  she  made  a 
most  express  stipulation  that  her  marriage 
with  Sir  Gwyn  should  make  no  difTerenea  in 
their  mode  of  life — that  they  should  still  live 
at  Mordaunt  Manor,  and  that  she  should  be 
his  nurse  and  his  attendant  as  before.  To 
these  things  Mordaunt  consented,  and  Sir 
Gwyn  was  only  too  glad  to  win  Bessie  under 
any  circumstances. 

Having  thus  gained  Bessie's  consent,  Mor- 
daunt was  urgent  in  pressing  her  to  arrange 
it  at  an  early  date.  His  own  health  now  de- 
clined even  more  rapidly,  and  this  made  him 
all  the  more  impatient.  Sir  Gwyn,  also,  who 
saw  Mordaunt's  impatience,  united  his  own 
ardent  entreaties,  and  Bessie  was  unable  to 
refuse. 

The  marriage  thus  took  place  about  a 
month  after  Mordaunt  had  gained  Bessie's 
acquiescence.  Prominent  among  those  who 
witnessed  the  ceremony  was  Mordaunt,  who 
sat  in  p  chair  in  the  centre  aisle,  propped  up 
■with  pillows.  His  strength  had  failed  so 
much  that  he  had  come  to  this.    But  the  ef- 


fort was  too  much,  and  he  was  so  exhausted 
that  on  his  way  home  he  fainted. 

Sir  Gwyn  and  Lady  Ruthven  went  on  a 
short  tour  through  the  Highlands,  but  were 
not  gone  more  than  a  fortnight.  Bessie's 
anxiety  would  not  allow  her  to  remain  away 
longer.  She  hud  to  flyback  to  her  "dear, 
dear  papa."  Mordaunt  seemed  somewhat 
better,  in  spite  of  the  over-exertion  at  the 
wedding.  Titero  was  more  strength  in  his 
frame,  more  color  in  his  cheeks.  When  the 
bridal  pair  left,  he  was  unable  to  stand  alone. 
Now  he  could  walk  about  the  house,  and  up 
and  down  the  piazza. 

Sir  Gwyn  was  overjoyed,  and  Bessie  ex- 
pressed herself  in  terms  of  the  highest  de- 
light. 

Encouraging  as  this  improvement  in  Jlor- 
daunt  was,  however,  it  proved  but  tempo- 
rary ;  and  Bessie  had  scarce  resumed  her 
former  fond  attendance  upon  her  "  dearest, 
darling  papa,"  when  the  strength  that  hail 
begun  to  return,  once  more  began  to  leave 
him.  This  created  the  deepest  dejection  in 
him.  lie  had  begun  to  hope.  All  hope 
seemed  now  to  be  gone. 

Lady  Ruthven  received  the  congratulatory 
visits  of  the  country  people,  who  found  her  in 
her  new  dignity  more  charming  than  ev^r. 
But  the  universal  popularity  whie'i  she  had 
gained  in  no  way  changed  the  simplicity  of 
her  character  and  mann';r.  There  was  no 
affectation,  nor  was  there  a'ly  attempt  to  lay 
aside  the  little  peculiarities  which  had  al- 
ways formed  at  once  her  di-itinction  and  no 
little  of  her  charm. 

Nor  did  the  new  social  duties  which  now 
devolved  upon  her  draw  Lady  I'aithven  awuy 
from  tliose  duties  to  which  Bessie  had  been 
so  devoted.  Mordaunt  uaw,  with  mT*  •''ndcr- 
ness,  that  her  promise  to  him  had  not  been  a 
vain  one;  and  that  the  husband  had  n(!t 
eclipsed  the  father.  To  Mordaunt  she  al- 
lotted nmre  time  than  either  to  her  husband 
or  to  the  world.  The  attendant  physicians 
thouglit  that  her  unremitting  care  had  pro- 
long('(l  tlie  old  man's  life  beyond  what  would 
have  been  its  term  under  other  circum- 
stauees;  and  society,  which  already  ad- 
mired her  for  her  beauty  and  amiability,  now 
adored  her  for  her  tendiT  devotion  and  her 
filial  piety.  Gwyn,  also,  in  winning  the 
daughter,  had  not  forgotten  the  father;  but, 
as  the  lover  had  been,  so  was  the  husband, 
:ind  he  fimiKl  the  society  of  his  wife  none  the 


pxliausted 

rent  on  a 

but  wore 

I3essie'3 

lain  nway 

fer  "dear, 

somewhat 

|on  nt  tho 

:th  in  Jiia 

JWIicn  the 

land  alone. 

fee,  and  up 


SELF-SACRIFICE. 


119 


less  pleasant  in  Mordauni'.s  cliambci"  tlian  else- 
where. 

But  Monlaunt's  day^  wero  numbered. 
This  was  evident.  IIo  knew  it  himself. 
Owyn  knew  it.  Bessie  tried  to  reject  the 
belief,  but  it  could  be  seen  tliat  she  dreaded 
tiie  worst.  There  was  about  her,  at  times, 
a  hurried  nervousness,  a  dreamy  abstraction, 
a  fearful,  furtive  glance,  unlike  any  thing  that 
had  ever  before  been  seen  in  her  by  her 
friends.  Gwyn  noticed  this,  and  urged  her 
in  his  loving  way  to  take  more  rest,  but  Bes- 
sie turned  it  off  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh. 

llordaunt's  days  were  numbered.  Since 
the  return  of  tho  newly-married  pair,  his 
strength  began  to  fail  him,  and  he  descended 
by  ever-accelerated  degrees  down  toward  tho 
last  verge  of  life.  But,  with  each  succeeding 
stage  of  weakness,  Bessie's  caro  grew  more 
and  more  unremitting.  At  length  she  had  to 
deny  herself  to  all  visitors,  and  confine  her- 
self to  Mordaunt's  chamber. 

As  the  old  man  descended  deeper  and 
deeper  into  tho  dark  waters  of  death,  his 
heart  still  turned  with  yearning  affection  and 
inexpressible  gratitude  to  tliis  bright  young 
being  whoso  love  had  so  glorified  the  last 
days  of  his  life.  lie  had  come  home,  as  he 
now  saW;  to  die  ;  but  how  sweet  it  was  to  de- 
scend to  death  in  such  society ;  to  feel  her 
soft  touch,  to  hear  her  voice  of  love,  her 
low-breathed  tones  of  tender  affection,  all 
tho  way !  To  the  worn-out  man  death  that 
came  in  this  way  could  scarce  bo  deemed 
unwelcome.  Could  any  death  bo  better  or 
brighter  ? 

It  was  Bessie  who  thus  cheered  his  last 
hours.  She  read  to  him  when  iio  wished  it. 
She  Bung  to  him  the  hymns  or  the  chants 
which  he  loved — hymns  and  chants  which  she 
had  already  learned  for  liis  sake.  He  loved 
to  listen  to  licr  voice  as  she  thus  sung,  clasp- 
ing licr  hand  tho  while  as  though  he  gathered 
strength  from  her.  She  also,  as  always  be- 
fore, poured  out  all  his  draughts,  ond  admin- 
istered to  him  all  his  medicines.  This  was  a 
privilege  which  she  had  claimed  from  the 
first,  and  the  old  man  expected  it ;  and,  dur- 
ing her  absence  on  the  bridal  tour,  he  missed 
this  tender  attention,  even  iliough  his  health 
had  been  better  without  it. 

So  the  days  passed,  and  Bessie  showed  her 
tender  and  solicitous  love. 

Thus  the  last  hour  drew  near. 

For  a  whole  day  ho  had  been  at  the  verge 


cf  dissolution.  Bessie  had  refused  to  leave 
his  bedside.  She  Sat  there,  holding  his  hand, 
and  wiping  the  cold  dews  of  death  from  his 
brow.  In  that  same  room  was  Gwyn,  watch- 
ing tho  dying  face  of  Mordaunt ;  watching 
iilso  the  pale  face  of  his  devoted  wife,  who  in 
her  deep  love  for  a  father  thought  nothing  of 
herself.  He  was  afraid  of  tho  reaction  from 
all  this  ;  yet  he  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Bes- 
sie refused  to  leave  the  room  till  all  was  over ; 
and  he  knew  not  what  arguments  to  bring 
forward  at  ouch  a  time.  Tho  family  physi- 
cian was  also  there,  counting  the  moments 
that  might  elapse  till  all  should  be  over,  and 
looking  wilh  unfeigned  emotion  upon  the 
scene  before  him,  where  tho  daughter  clung 
so  to  the  dying  father,  as  though  she  would 
drag  him  back  from  death  unto  life. 

Suddenly  the  dying  man  opened  his  eyes, 
and  fixed  them  on  Bessie.  His  lipa  moved. 
She  bent  down  low  to  listen. 

"  Inez,"  said  ho. 

"  Yes,  papa  dearest,"  said  Bessie.    , 

Mordaunt  stared  at  her. 

"  You  are  not  Inez!"  said  he,  in  a  voice 
which  was  audible  to  all  in  the  room. 

Bessie  shook  her  head  mournfully,  and 
looked  at  her  husband. 

"  His  mind  is  wandering  still,  poor  papa! 
lie  is  thinking  of  poor,  dear,  darling  mamma, 
so  he  is.  Her  name  was  Inez,  too,  the  same 
as  mine." 

Mordaunt's  eyes  closed. 

After  about  an  hour  he  opened  them 
oneo  more,  and  again  they  rested  on  Bessie. 
Those  who  looked  at  his  face  now  sa  .hat 
the  last  great  change  had  come  over  it.  Death- 
struck  was  that  face  now,  yet  the  eyes  were 
full  of  intelligence,  and  beamed  with  inex- 
pressible tenderness  as  they  rested  on  Bessie. 

"  Inez — dearest  —  best — daughter!"  he 
said. 

Bessie  bent  down  low  over  him. 

"  Kiss — me — Inez ! " 

Bessie  pressed  her  lips  to  hia  cold  fore- 
head. 

Such  were  the  last  words  of  Bernai  Mor- 
daunt. He  was  buried  in  a  manner  worthy 
of  the  great  house  of  which  he  was  the  last 
representative. 

Lady  Ruthven  was  great!;'  prostrated  by 
this  last  blow,  yet  she  rallied  from  it  with  un- 
expected rapidity.  But  the  melancholy  CTcnt 
that  had  just  occurred  made  Mordaunt  Manor 
distasteful  to  her  now  ;  and  so  she  yielded  to 


m 


AN   OPEN'   QUESTION. 


her  husband's  earnest  solicitations,  and  went 
with  liim  to  take  up  her  permanent  abode  at 
Ruthvcn  Towers. 


1 


fi 


CIIArTER  XXIX. 

A    STRANGE    MEETING. 

The  letter  which  Blake  had  written  was 
dplivcrcd  to  Kane  Ilellmuth  on  the  following 
day.  It  excited  much  surprise  on  the  part 
of  the  latter,  and  for  a  twofold  reason  :  first, 
because  his  friend's  departure  was  so  sud- 
den ;  and,  secondly,  because  the  letter  itself 
was  so  incoherent  and  unsatisfactory.  The 
construction  of  the  sentences  was  most  con- 
fused and  awkward  ;  and  it  was  impossible  to 
find  out  where  he  had  gone,  and  what  he  had 
gone  for.  Kane  Ilellmuth  could  not  suspect 
so  frank  a  nature  as  t'-at  of  Blake  of  any 
thing  like  deceit ;  .and,  if  the  letter  was  am- 
biguous or  unintelligible,  he  chose  rather  to 
attribute  it  to  haste,  or  sleepiness,  on  the 
part  of  the  writer.  He  had  seen  him  on  the 
previous  day,  and  Blake  had  made  no  men- 
tion of  any  thing  of  the  hind ;  nor  did  he 
seem  to  have  any  idea  of  going  on  a  journey. 
He  was  certainly  a  little  abstracted  in  his 
manner,  for  Kane  Ilellmuth's  own  cares  had 
not  altogether  prevented  him  from  noticing 
that ;  but  this  may  have  arisen  from  his  anx- 
iety about  his  mother,  from  whom,  as  he  him- 
self had  said,  he  had  not  heard  for  some  time. 
lie  could  only  understand  this  mysterious  let- 
ter by  supposing  that  some  friend  of  Blake's 
had  written  to  him,  or  come  to  him,  and  given 
him  information  of  some  sudden  opening 
which  he  had  to  accept  at  once.  Thinking, 
therefore,  that  Blako  would  either  be  back, 
or  write  more  fully  before  long,  he  put  the 
letter  away,  and  waited  in  the  expectation  of 
hearing  more. 

Days  passed,  however,  and  weeks  also, 
and  even  months,  without  any  further  com- 
munication. This  surprised  Kane  Hellmuth, 
for  he  had  expected  dillorcnt  things ;  and, 
taken  in  connection  with  the  inoolit'cnt  let- 
ter, it  gave  him  some  anxiety.  He  also  felt 
this  another  way,  for  hn  had  conceived  a 
Strong  regard  for  his  friend,  and  liked  to  run 
in  to  see  him,  f"'  liave  him  drop  in  to  his  own 
apartmentn.  The  matter,  therefore,  took  up 
a  good  uiiare  of  his  thoughts,  and  he  could 
not  help  the  suspicion  that  there  was  some 


evil  involved  in  this  sudden  and  mysterious 
flight.  Whal  it  could  be  ho  did  not  know, 
I'jr  he  was  not  aware  of  any  circumstances 
which  migtit  inspire  any  one  with  evil  de8i;:ns 
against  him;  and  so,  in  default  of  other 
things,  his  mind  dwelt  upon  that  strange  in- 
tercourse which  Blake  had  held  with  Mr.  Wy- 
verne,  which  was  terminated  by  the  wonder- 
ful declaration  of  the  latter,  and  his  death. 
Although  he  had  heard  Father  JIagrath's  ex- 
planation of  that  affair,  and  fully  believed  it, 
yet  still,  in  spite  of  this,  he  could  not  help 
connecting  it  in  some  way  with  Blake'.,  pres- 
ent disappearance,  and  the  thought  occurred 
to  him  often  and  often  that  if,  after  all,  it 
were  true,  Blake  might  have  enemies  ;  though 
who  they  could  be,  and  what  motive  for  en- 
mity they  could  possibly  have,  was  utterly  be- 
yond his  comprehension. 

Thus  the  time  passed,  and  as  the  months 
went  by  without  any  news  from  his  filcnd,  ho 
began  to  fear  the  worst,  thougii  such  was  his 
ignorance  of  Blake's  movements  that  he  did 
not  know  what  to  do  to  search  him  out.  The 
eoncierffe  of  the  house  where  Blake  had 
stopped  could  tell  him  nothing  except  that  on 
a  certain  morning  he  had  gone  in  company 
with  another  person,  and  had  left  directions 
that  his  trunk  should  b?  taken  care  of.  He 
did  not  know  wlio  the  other  person  was,  and 
the  description  which  he  gave  of  him  afforded 
no  intelligence  to  Kane  Hellmuth.  To  the 
police  it  was,  of  course,  useless  to  apply,  for 
the  meagre  information  which  he  could  sup- 
ply them  with  would  not  be  enough  to  yield 
them  any  clew  by  which  they  might  be  guided 
to  a  search.  His  lielplcssucss  in  this  matter 
was  therefore  complete,  and  that  very  help- 
lessness made  the  whole  affair  more  painful 
to  him. 

Before  this  he  had  been  the  prey  of  one 
great  and  ciigrosslng  trouble,  which  aro.^o 
from  that  mysterious  and  inexplienblo  appa- 
rition whose  visitations  he  had  described  to 
Blake.  Now  this  new  trouble  had  taken  up 
his  thoughts  more  and  more,  until  at  lengtji 
his  own  affair  had  come  to  occupy  but  a 
small  portion  of  his  attention.  It  .vas  not 
forgotten  by  any  means  ;  it  was  only  pushed 
over  into  a  subordinate  i)lace,  and  ceased  to 
be  a  supremo  core.  The  possible  evil  im- 
pending  over  Blako  seomod  to  him  more  for- 
midable than  any  thing  that  could  arise  from 
his  own  experiences ;  and  so  it  was  that,  in 
the  mystery  which  had  gathered  around  Hlake, 


A  STRANGE   MKHTIXG. 


131 


jystcrloiis 
not  know, 
imstances 
il  de8i;2iia 
of  otlicr 
range  in- 
Mr.  Wy. 
0  won  do  r- 
i.s  (U'.-itli. 
ratli's  cx- 
ievcd  it, 
nof  lie)]) 
kc'„  prc?- 
occurred 
rter  all,  it 
thoiigli 
vc  for  cii- 
ittci'lv  be- 


his  own  peculiar  mystery  had  grown  to  be  a 
matter  of  minor  importance. 

Such  was  the  state  of  Kane  Ilcllmuth's 
mind,  when  one  day  lie  was  wandering  through 
the  streets  on  the  way  to  hi3  rooms.  IIo  was 
approaching  the  street  up  which  he  intended 
to  turn,  a:\il  was  about  six  feet  from  the  cor- 
ner, when  suddenly  at  the  opposite  corner  ho 
caught  sight  of  a  figure  which  at  once  drove 
from  bis  mind  all  thoughts  of  Blake,  and  re- 
stored in  its  fullest  intensity  all  those  myste- 
rious feelings  which  he  had  described  in  nar- 
rating his  story  of  the  apparition.  It  was  a 
female  figure.  The  face  was  thin,  and  pallid, 
and  careworn  ;  the  eyes  were  large  and  dark, 
and  rested  for  a  mor  it  upon  him.  The 
very  first  glance  showed  nim  that  this  was 
the  face  of  his  "  apparition  "  in  very  truth, 
and  beyond  a  doubt ;  and  so  profound  was 
the  shock  that,  for  a  moment,  as  he  stared 
back,  he  felt  rooted  to  the  spot. 

But  about  this  apparition  there  were  cer- 
tain peculiarities  of  an  important  kind.  The 
face  was  precisely  the  same — the  same  pallor 
— the  same  deep,  dark  eyes — the  same  fixed, 
unfathomable  gaze ;  yet  in  other  things  a 
change  was  observable.  The  expression  was 
no  longer  one  of  reproach  ;  it  was  rather  one 
of  sudden  terror — a  terror  like  his  own  ;  the 
glance  was  not  long  and  s\istai.ied — it  was 
rather  furtive  and  hasty.  Moreover,  tliough 
this  apparition  was  dressed  in  black,  it  was 
not  the  costume  of  a  nun  ;  it  was  simple  and 
sober,  yet  it  was  the  fashion  of  the  day  ;  and 
this  change  from  the  weird  and  unfamiliar,  to 
the  commonplace  and  familiar,  of  itself  wont 
far  to  steady  Kane  IlcUmuth's  nerves,  and 
prevent  him  from  sinking  into  that  lament- 
able weakness  which  liad  characterized  his 
former  meetings   vdth  this  mysterious  boini;. 

lie  stopped  there  for  a  moiront,  rooteu  to 
the  spot,  with  his  brain  in  a  wh;vi,  and  oil  Vcs 
former  feelings  overwhelming  hir.i;  '  .,  the 
cn?otiou  was  more  short-lived  tha;'  before, 
since  these  changes  in  the  form  and  fi'shion 
and  expression  of  the  figure  were  notiood  at 
once,  and  went  far  to  reassure  him.  Tlio 
figure  threw  one  hasty,  furtive  look  at  him, 
aud  then,  sharply  turning  the  opposite  corner, 
walked  q\iickly  up  the  street. 

In  an  instant  Kane  Ildlmuth  started  in  pur- 
suit. It  was  an  irresistible  fascination  that  drew 
Lim  on.  He  was  resolved  now  to  do  what  he 
could  to  fathom  tliis  mystery  that  so  long  had 
troubled  him.  Every  step  that  he  took  seemed 


to  bring  back  his  presence  of  mind,  and  drive 
away  those  feelings  of  superstitious  terror 
that  had  at  firnt  been  thrown  over  his  soul. 
Every  step  that  he  took  seemed  to  show  him 
that  he  was  the  stronger,  and  that  the  other 
was  the  weaker.  Every  thing  was  now 
on  his  side.  Surrounding  ciicumstances 
favored  him.  It  was  broad  day.  It  was  a 
public  street,  on  which  people  were  passing 
to  and  fro,  and  the  ordinary  every-day  traffic 
was  going  on.  There  was  no  chance  here  for 
any  of  that  jugglery  which  might  deceive  the 
senses  ;  or  any  of  those  associations  of  night, 
and  gloom,  and  solemnity,  which  on  the  last 
memorable  meeting  had  baffled  his  search. 
Moreover,  the  face  of  the  Figure  was  turned 
away.  It  was  Its  back  that  he  saw.  Tho 
Figure  moved  rapidly  on,  yet  not  so  rapid- 
ly but  that  he  could  keep  up  with  It,  or  even 
overtake  It.  It  seemed  to  him  that  ho  was 
the  pursuer,  and  the  Figure  tho  pursued,  and 
that  now,  if  he  followed  vigorously,  all  might 
be  at  last  revealed. 

Kane  Ilellmuth  thus  followed  from  one  cor- 
ner to  the  next.  Then  the  Figure  crossed  the 
street  to  the  opposite  corner.  He  followed. 
Then  tho  Figure  turned,  and  fixed  its  eyes 
again  on  Kane  Hellmutli.  It  was  the  same 
glance  as  before,  intensified.  It  was  a  sud- 
den glance,  and  one,  too,  which  showed  signs 
of  unmistakable  fear.  Yet  tho  face  was  the 
same — it  was  the  face  of  his  apparition — the 
face  that  had  haunted  him  for  years — the  face 
that  was  associated  with  tho  brightest  and 
tho  darkest  hom-"  o*"  all  Ms  life.  The  look  of 
fea*"  was  something  new,  yet  it  seemed  to 
heighten  his  own  rosjlulion  and  strengthen 
his  o>vn  heart ;  for  now  it  seemed  as  though 
the  tables  had  been  turned,  and  all  the  fear 
which  onco  Jiad  been  felt  by  him  had  passed 
over  to  the  other. 

Tho  Figure  now  walked  on  faster.  Evi- 
dently It  was  trying  to  fly  from  him.  Ho 
himself  increased  his  pace.  Easy  enough  was 
it  for  him  to  keep  up  even  with  this  utmost 
exertion  of  the  other.  In  a  race  like  this  ho 
was  the  superior.  He  sa'.,  li ;  he  felt  if. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  supernatural  here. 
Could  it  indeed  be  ?  Was  she,  then,  alive  ? 
But,  if  so,  why  did  she  fly  ?  'What  did  she 
mean  ?  It  was  a  living  wnm.an  that  was 
before  his  eyes,  fearing  him,  flying  from  him, 
overcome  wiih  human  terror. 

Tho  woman  hurried  on.  Kane  Hellmuth 
hurried  after.    Suddenly  she  hailed  a  passing 


in 


AX  OPEN'  QUESTION'. 


i 


call.  TIio  ciil)  drew  up  at  tlio  sidewalk.  Tlio 
o;ibmaii  got  do^vn  to  open  tlie  door.  Already 
the  woman's  liand  was  on  the  door,  and  lier 
foot  was  on  the  curb,  when  Kane  HoUrauth 
rcaehed  the  fpofcv  lie  did  not  stand  on  eere- 
niony.  Too  deep  was  his  anxiety  to  learn 
the  tnitli  of  this  matter  for  hirn  to  observe 
any  of  the  pet:y  eourtesics  of  life,  lie  was 
not  rude  or  rough ;  ho  was  simply  earnest, 
and  in  hlg  desperate  earnestness,  awl  in  his 
deep  longing  to  know  all,  he  laid  his  hand 
suddenly  and  sharply  upon  the  woman's 
arm. 

She  turned  hastily  and  stared  at  him, 
showing  a  face  that  was  filled  with  an  an- 
guish of  terror.  ller  lips  moved,  but  no 
sound  escaped  them.  Tiien,  while  Kane 
llellmuth's  hand  still  clutehed  her  arm,  a 
low  moan  escaped  her,  she  reeled,  and  would 
have  fallen  if  ho  had  not  caught  her  in  his 
arms. 

The  cabman  stood  by  obi'erving  this 
scene  calmly.  It  was  no  business  of  his.  He 
did  not  understand  it,  of  course,  but  then  it 
■was  often  his  fortune  to  be  a  witncs.s  of  unin- 
telligible scenes  lilce  this. 

Meanwhile,  the  woman  hinig  stuseless  on 
Kane  llellmuth's  arms.  For  a  tnoment  he 
was  puzzled  what  to  do.  AVhere  was  her 
residence?  lie  did  not  know.  "SVherc  should 
he  take  her  ?  No  apparition  was  this — this 
being  of  flesh  and  blood  of  whose  weight  he 
■was  sensible  ;  but  rather  a  living  hunum  be- 
ing. But  oh  !  wiio — and  why  had  she  sought 
him  out  ? 

Ho  did  not  hesitate  long.  lie  lilted  her 
into  the  cab,  and  then,  getting  in  himself,  he 
gave  the  cabman  his  own  address.  Tlie  eab- 
niau  drove  there  at  once,  and,  as  it  was 
not  far  away,  they  soon  reached  the  place. 
Kane  llcllmutli  then  took  the  woman  in  his 
arms,  and  carried  her  up  to  his  own  apart- 
nient.-i.  Then  he  sent  up  the  women  of  the 
houpe,  and  waited  the  result. 

The  usual  restoratives  were  applied,  and 
the  woman  eame  out  of  her  senselessness. 
Fhe  looked  wildly  around,  and  for  some  time 
was  unable  to  comprehend  her  situation. 
Then  a  sudden  look  of  terror  came  over  her 
face,  and  she  began  to  implore  the  women  to 
let  her  go. 

The  women  did  not  know  what  (o  say. 
Kane  Ilollmuth  had  hurriedly  informed  tiiem 
that  he  had  found  her  fainting  in  the  street, 
and  this  Ihev  told  her. 


"  Then  I  am  not  a  prisoner  here  ?  "  said' 
the  woman,  eagerly. 

"  .V  prisoner  !  "  exclaimed  one  of  the  at- 
tendanis  ;  "  mon  Dicu  !  no,  madame.  How 
is  that  ]iossible  ?  Ton  may  go  when  and 
where  you  please  ;  only  you  must  rest  a  few 
moments.  It  was  a  very  kind  gentleman 
who  brought  you  here,  and  sent  us  up." 

The  woman  gave  a  low  sigh  of  relief,  and 
sunk  back  again.  !-'hc  had  been  placed  on 
the  sola  in  Kane  llellmuth's  room.  She  was 
young,  and  seemed  to  have  sull'ercd  much. 
She  v.as  evidently  a  lady. 

Sudilenly  she  roused  herself. 

"  Who  brought  me  here  'i  "  she  asked, 
abruptly. 

"  Monsieur  Hellmuth,''  said  tiie  attendant, 
pronouneiug  the  name  as  well  as  slie  could. 

"  ITailmeet,''  repeated  the  lady,  thought- 
fully. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  him — perhaps  he 
can  explain  —  that  there  is  nothing  to 
fear." 

"  I  am  not  a  prisoner,  then  ?  "  said  the 
lady,  eamesth'. 

"Oh,  no — a  pvi.-oner?  Mon  Dieu  !  im- 
possible !  " 

"  And  you  are  not  employed  to  detain 
mo  ?  "         " 

"  Mon  Dicu !  but  mademoiselle  is  rav- 
ing — that  is  a  thing  altogether  impossible. 
I'ut  you  must  see  the  good  Monsieur  Hell- 
mulli. 

With  these  words  the  woman  who  had 
spoken  left  the  room,  and  informed  Kane 
Hellmuth  that  t!ic  young  lady  had  come  to 
her  senses  ;  telling  him  also,  what  she  had 
said.  Her  words  excited  surprise  in  llell- 
muth's mind,  but  he  was  eager  to  know  all, 
and  so  ho  at  once  entered  the  room.  The 
woman  tollowed  him,  and  waited  there,  to- 
gether  with  the  other  attendant. 

Kane  Hellnuith  looked  earnestly  at  the 
pale  face  before  him,  and  the  lady  raised  her 
large,  dark,  melancholy  ryes  to  his  face,  and 
regarded  'lim  with  equal  earnestness,  though 
in  her  look  there  was  an  anxious  scrutiny 
and  timid  inquiry.  15ut  the  face  that  she  saw 
seemed  to  have  no  terror  for  her  now,  and  the 
first  look  of  fear  gave  place  to  one  of  mourn- 
ful  entreaty. 

"Oh,  sir,"  said  she,  in  English,  "you  arc 
an  Englishman  j  yoti  cannot  be  capable  of  in- 
juring one  who  never  harmed  you  !  I  have 
sulTi'red  enough,  and  why  I  do  not  know.'' 


said 


A  STRANGE  MEETIXG. 


DM 


At  this,  Kane  llelliuuth  felt  bewildered. 
This  was,  indeed,  a  striingo  address  from  her. 
lie  Raid  nothing  for  n  few  moments,  but  re- 
garded her  with  a  solemn  face,  and  a  look  in 
which  tliero  was  nothing;  save  tenderness  and 
longing. 

"You  do  not  seem  to  know  me,"  said  he, 
at  length,  in  a  mournful  tone. 

"  I  do  not,"  said  the  lady.  "  I  never  saw 
you  before  to-day." 

"  Are  you  not  Clara  Iluthycn  ?  "  asked 
Kane  Ilcllrauth,  in  a  tremulous  voiee. 

The  lady  shook  her  head. 

"Is  it  all  a  mistake,  then?"  cried  Kane 
Hellmuth,  in  a  voice  that  was  a  wail  of  de- 
spair. "Are  you  not  my  Clara  ?  Arc  you  not 
Clara  Mordaunt,  who — " 

IIo  was  interrupted  by  the  lady.  At  the 
mention  of  tlio  name  of  Clara  Mordaunt  she 
Btartcil  from  the  sofa  to  her  feet,  and  stared 
at  him  in  amazement. 

"  Clara  Mordaunt ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Clara 
Mordaunt !  Who  are  you  V  What  do  you 
know  about  Clara  Mordaunt?  Clara  Mor- 
daunt!" she  repeated,  and  again  the  fright- 
ened look  eame  to  her  face.  "  Oh,  sir,  if  you 
are  in  league  with  those  who  have  so  cruelly 
wronged  me,  have  pity  on  me!  I'o  not,  oh, 
do  not  detain  me !  Let  me  go.  My  life  is 
wretched  enough,  ami  my  only  hope  is  to 
have  my  freedom  till  I  die." 

"Answer  mo  this,"  said  Kane  Ilellniuth, 
in  a  hoarse  voice,  which  was  tremulous  still 
with  deepest  emotion.  "I  am  no  enemy;  I 
have  no  evil  designs;  if  you  are  a  strange.', 
after  all,  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me; 
If  you  are  in  trouble,  I  swear  I  will  do  what  I 
can  to  help  you,  but  only  answer  me.  If  you 
arc  not  Clara  Kuthven,  she  who  was  born 
Clara  Mordaunt,  in  Heaven's  name  who  arc 
you,  and  why  have  you  appeared  before  mc 
in  so  many  places  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  appeared  before  yon,"  said 
the  lady.  "  I  never  saw  you  before.  You  ask 
after  Clara  Mordaunt.  I  am  not  Clara  Mor- 
daunt. Clara  Mordaunt  is  dead.  ?lie  died 
ten  years  ago.  Why  do  you  ask  me  if  I  am 
Clara  Mordaunt  ?  " 

"  Dead  ! "  repeated  Kane  Hellmuth,  in  a 
hollow  voice.  "  Well,  that  is  what  every  one 
gays,  but  I  swear  I  never  saw  in  any  human 
face  such  a  resemblance  to  any  other  human 
faeo  as  there  is  in  yours  to  the  face  of  Clara 
Mordaunt !  I5ut  what  do  you  mean  by  saying 
that    you    never    aj)peared    to   me   before  V 


Were  you  not  at  Pcre-la- Chaise  Ceme- 
tery ?  " 

"Never,"  said  the  lady.  "I  never  Ba\f 
you  before." 

"  What !  were  not  you  the  one  that  I  saw 
at  Xotre-Dame,  in  the  rail-cars,  in  the  Boule- 
vard where — " 

"You  arc  utterly  mistaken,"  said  tho 
lady ;  "  I  never  saw  you  before." 

"ITavo  you  not  been  here  all  these  years, 
appearing  and  disappearing  like  a  phan- 
tom, reminding  mo  of  one  who  you  say  is 
dead  ?  " 

"  Years  !  "  said  the  lady.  "  I  don't  un- 
derstand you.  I  have  been  in  Paris  only 
three  months,  though  they  seem  like  many, 
many  years.  I!ut  oh,  sir  !  you  look  like  otio 
who  would  not  willingly  do  a  wrong.  Your 
face  cannot  belie  you.  Will  you  tell  me  what 
you  mean  by  asking  after  Clara  Mordaunt  ? 
— what  you  mean  by  calling  her  Clara  Ruth- 
ven,  and  tell  mo  what  she  is  to  you  ?  " 

"  To  me  ?  0  Heavens  !  "  said  Kane  Ilell- 
muth,  "  she  was  so  much  to  me  that  now  it 
is  better  not  to  talk  about  it.  But  did  you 
know  her  ?  Will  you  tell  me  how  it  is  that 
you  have  such  an  extraordinary  likeness  to 
her?  If  you  are  not  Clara  Mordaunt,  who 
are  you  ?  " 

"  My  fright  must  have  been  a  mistake," 
said  the  lady,  looking  at  Kane  Hellmuth  with 
greater  interest,  "and  I  can  only  hope  that  it 
has  been  so.  I  will  tell  you  who  I  am,  for 
oh,  sir,  I  think  I  may  trust  you.  This  Clara 
Mordaunt  that  you  speak  of  was  my  own  sis- 
ter, and  my  name  is  Inez  Mordaunt." 

"  Her  sister  !  Inez  Mordaunt ! "  cried  Kane 
Hellmuth,  in  amazement.  "  Why,  she  said 
that  her  sister  Inez  was  dead  ! " 

The  lady  stared  at  him. 

"Dead?  Did  she  say  that?  Then  she 
must  have  been  deceived,  like  me,  all  her 
life.  For  I,  too,  lived  a  life  that  was  all  sur- 
rounded by  deceit,  and  it  was  only  an  acci- 
dent that  revealed  to  me  the  truth.  I  was 
brought  «p  to  believe  that  my  name  was  Wy- 
verne,  and — " 

But  here  Kane  Hellmuth  interrupted 
her. 

"  Wyvcrne  !  "  he  cried.  "  Wyveme  ! 
Inez  Wyverne !  Are  you  Inez  Wyverne  ? 
Oh,  Heavens !  what  is  the  meaning  of  all 
this  ? 

Ho  stopped,  overwhelmed  by  a  rush  of 
emotion  conscriuent  upon  the  mention  of  that 


\'M 


lU 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION'. 


nnine.  IIo  recalled  tlic  story  of  Ulnko,  and 
Diakc's  love  for  tliia  girl,  wlio  had  thus  so 
strangely  come  across  his  way.  lie  recalled 
his  conversation  with  Father  Mngrath.  lie 
had  heard  from  him  that  Inez  Wyvernc  hud 
been  left  penniless,  but  how  had  she  come 
liere  ?  AVhy  did  she  take  tlio  name  of  Mor- 
daunt?  How  was  i;  that  siie  called  herself 
the  sister  of  Clara  Mordaunt,  his  wife  ?  Who 
was  tlic  other  Miss  ilordaiint  whom  he  had 
gone  to  London  to  see?  Was  she,  too,  a  sis- 
ter of  his  lost  Clara  f  Tliat  this  Inez  was 
her  sister  might  be  proved  by  her  extraor- 
dinary resemblance,  which  had  led  Lira  to 
identify  her  with  the  apparition ;  and  yet  it 
was  impossible  that  she  could  be  identical 
with  that  otlior  nivHtcrious  one,  for  she  had 
disclaimed  it.  What  was  the  meaning  of 
this? 

Such  were  the  thoughts  of  Kane  llcUmuth 
as  he  stood  there  staring  at  this  lady  whom 
he  had  brought  here,  and  who,  whether  Inez 
Wyverne  or  Inez  Mordaunt,  was  equally 
inexplicable  in  that  bewilderment  of  Lis 
thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE    .STOUT    OK    INKZ. 

Tiii:  presence  of  the  attendants  acted  as  a 
check  upon  Kane  Ilellmuth,  and  he  was  quick 
to  perceive  that  this  was  neither  tlie  time  nor 
the  place  for  that  full  explanation  which  he 
wished  to  liave.  There  was  much  to  be  said 
on  both  sides,  and  he  longed  to  hear  her 
story,  both  for  his  own  sake,  and  also  for  the 
sake  of  his  friend  to  whom  this  Inez  was  so 
dear.  Such  a  thing  would,  however,  have  to 
be  postponed  until  another  occasion. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  pouring  forth  that 
volley  of  ([uestions  which  his  first  impulse 
prompted  him  to  do,  he  checked  himself,  and 
began  to  apologize  for  bringing  her  to  his  room, 
on  the  ground  that  it  was  an  utter  mistake, 
which  would  have  to  be  explained  elsewhere. 
lie  informed  her  that  the  cab  was  still  wait- 
ing, and  would  take  her  to  her  lodgings  when- 
ever she  wished  it.  Inez  at  once  accepted 
the  offer  with  evident  gratitude;  the  fear  that 
Kane  Ilellmuth  had  but  recently  inspired  was 
nil  gone,  and  she  seemed  to  regard  him  as  one 
who  might  be  a  friend.  With  her  foar  much 
of  her  weakness  had  passed,  and  she  was  able 
to  walk  to  the  cab  without  assistance. 


Kano  Ilellmuth  accompanied  Lcr,  and 
Inez  seemed  to  acquiesce  in  Lis  oiler  of  com- 
panionship with  evident  sutisfactiun.  As  the 
cab  drove  olf,  notliing  was  said  for  a  few  miu- 
utes,  when  at  length  Kano  Ilelluiuth  burst 
forth  abruptly  with — 

"  All  this  is  the  most  astonisliing  thing  to 
nic  that  can  be  imagined.  When  you  men- 
tioned tlio  name  of  Wyvcrne  just  now,  I  at 
once  recognized  you  as  one  of  whom  I  had 
heard  very  much  from  an  intimate  friend  of 
mine,  who  also,  I  think,  is  a  fiiend  of  yours — 
Ur.  Uasil  Illake." 

"  Dr.  I'asil  lUake  !  "  exclainipd  Inez,  eager- 
ly.    "  Do  you  know  him  ¥  " 

She  spoke  eagerly  and  with  agitation,  and 
her  whole  manner  showed  that  Ulako  was  not 
without  interest  in  her  eyes. 

"  liasil  IJlakc,"  said  he,  "  is  my  intimate 
friend.  On  his  return  from  Villeneuve,  he  in- 
formed me  of  what  occurred  there." 

Inez  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"  Are  you  his  friend  ?  Then,  perhaps,  ho 
mentioned  your  name  to  me.  He  used  to  talk 
about  his  friend  Kane  Ilellmuth.'' 

"I  am  Kane  Ilellmuth." 

At  this,  Inez  looked  at  liim  more  earnestly 
than  ever,  and  her  face  was  overspread  wiUi 
a  sudden  expression  of  inexpressible  relief. 

"  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  I "  she  said,  simply 
and  innocently.  "  Oh,  I  cannot  till  you,  Mr. 
Ilellmulh,  how  very,  very  glad  I  am.  Oh, 
how  fortunate  for  me  this  uiccting  is  !  You 
cannot  imagine  what  I  have  sulTered.  This 
very  day  I  have  lieon  in  the  darkest  despair. 
Oh,  how  glad,  how  glad  I  am  I — And  is  Dr. 
Blake  here  too  ?  " 

"  Well,  no — not  just  now,"  said  Kane  Hell- 
muth.'with  some  hesitation.  "Ho  left  hero 
a  while  ago  for  the  south,  on  business." 

"  Oh,  how  glad  I  am ! "  said  Inez  again, 
speaking  half  to  herself,  and  in  a  tone  of  such 
innocent  and  unfeigned  joy  that  Kane  Hell- 
nmth  felt  touched  to  the  heart ;  and  it  seemed 
to  suggest  to  him  long  and  severe  suffering 
on  her  part,  out  of  which  she  now  saw  sonic 
means  of  escape  by  his  assistanco. 

This  a^sistL.ice  Lc  hastened  to  promise 
her,  and  not  Ion;;  after  they  reached  their  des- 
tination. The  lodgings  of  Inez  were  not  very 
far  from  the  pKace  where  he  had  first  seen 
her,  and  were  of  a  kind  that  seemed  suitable 
to  genteel  poverty.  The  room  into  which  ho 
followed  her  seemed  like  a  general  parlor, 
and  formed  one  of  a  suite   on   the    second 


lier,    and 

flcr  of  coni- 

oti.    As  tlio 

a  few  mill- 

iiiuth  burst 

iiiir  tiling  to 
■II  vou  tncn- 
•t  now,  I  at 

lioni  1  iiad 
te  friend  of 

of  yoiii's — 


Inez. 


cngcr. 


itation,  and 
ilvo  was  uot 

ly  intimate 
ciivc,  Le  in- 


Jeiliaps,  lio 
•  •^ed  to  talli 


c  earnest ijr 
prcad  Willi 

10  relief, 
liil,  simply 

11  J-ou,  Mr. 
am.     Oh, 

;  in  !  You 
red.  TliiH 
St  despair. 
iVud  is  Dr. 

Kane  IIcll. 
I  left  licro 
•sa." 

icz  again, 
iioof  sueli 
:iino  Hell- 
it  .seemed 
siifTering 
saw  some 

promi.so 
tlicirdes- 
'  not  very 
first  seen 

suitable 
ivhieli  ho 
1  parlor, 
!   Second 


TlIK  CluliX   01'   INF.Z. 


r>5 


fldor,  hire*],  ns  she  infurined  him,  by  the  ludy 
Vihh  whom  alio  was  lodging. 

Situated  as  these  two  were  with  regard  to 
one  another,  there  was  very  much  to  be  asked 
and  to  bo  answered  on  both  sides ;  nor  was 
it  until  several  interviews  that  each  became 
aequ;\intcd  with  the  position  of  the  other. 
The  position  of  Inez  was  one  of  so  painful  a 
character,  that  she  was  eager  to  tell  it  all  to 
Kano  Ilellmutli,  so  as  to  get  his  assistance ; 
and  lie  on  his  part  was  eriually  an.^ious  to  tell 
her  his  story,  partly  to  explain  his  late  con- 
duct, and  partly  from  the  hope  that  she  might 
give  him  some  information  about  the  myste- 
rious apparition  which  had  so  troubled  Mm. 
As  far  as  that  was  concerned,  however,  Inez 
was  not  able  to  throw  any  light  on  it  what- 
ever, and  indeed  .<he  knew  less  of  that  "  Clara 
.Mordaunt,''  who'ri  she  considered  her  sLstcr, 
than  Kane  Ilellmuth  himself.  There  was  no 
way  in  which  Inez  could  accoimt  for  the  ap- 
])arition.  If  it  was  ever  explained,  the  expla- 
nation would  have  to  bo  made  in  soiiio  way 
finite  irrespective  of  her ;  and  her  story  showed 
that  she  could  not  have  been  in  Paris  at  all 
while  those  mysterious  visitations  were  oc- 
curring. 

Ilcr  own  story,  however,  was  one  of  'inch 
an  extraordinary  eharaetcr,  that  it  at  once 
aroused  his  warmest  sympathies,  and  occu- 
pied most  of  his  thoughts.  It  was  not  all 
told  at  once,  but  in  the  course  of  various  in- 
terviews; and,  without  reporting  any  conver- 
sation vcrbaliiii,  ic  may  be  best  fo  narrate  that 
htory  now : 

■\Vhen  Inez  landed  in  France,  she  took 
the  first  train  for  Paris,  and  for  some  time 
had  no  otlicr  thought  thin  to  hurry  on  with- 
out delay,  so  as  to  sec  her  father  as  soon  as 
possible.  At  length  she  began  to  feel  troub- 
led about  the  meeting  that  was  before  her, 
ond  wondered  how,  in  the  confusion  of  a  rail- 
waj'-3tation,  she  could  recognize  her  father's 
messengers,  or  be  recognized  by  them.  Her 
anxiety  to  reach  her  father  increased  her  anx- 
iety in  this  respect,  and  at  Icn'xth  she  had  to 
tell  her  troubles  to  her  maid  Saunders.  She 
herself  could  not  speak  French  very  well,  but 
Saunders  could  speak  it  as  well  as  English, 
and  no  sooner  had  she  learned  the  anxiety  of 
her  mistress,  than  she  hastened  to  soothe 
her.  She  proraised  to  speak  to  tlic  guard,  and 
did  so  '  such  good  purpose  that  this  func- 
tionary came  in  person  to  Inez,  and  with  inany 
gesticulations  assured  her  that  he  himself 


would  look  out  for  her  friemls,  and  see  that 
they  should  find  her.  Ucassured  by  this, 
Jaez  got  the  better  of  her  anxiety  in  this  re- 
spect, and  at  length  reached  Paris. 

As  the  train  stopped,  Inez  felt  a  strango 
sense  of  desolation  in  her  heart.  Sho  was 
weak,  too,  and  weary,  for  she  had  travelled 
all  night,  and  it  was  a  raw,  gray,  dismal 
morning.  Sho  looked  out  into  the  station- 
house,  and  saw  the  twinkling  lights,  and  tho 
crowd  moving  to  and  fro.  Tho  conseiousness 
that  she  was  in  a  foreign  country,  without  a 
home,  came  to  her  with  oppressive  power;  ni-r 
could  even  the  thought  of  her  father,  with 
Avhich  sho  tried  to  console  herself,  enable  her 
to  overmaster  this  sense  of  loneliness.  There 
was  also  a  time  of  waiting  whicli  seemed  uii- 
usually  long.  She  had  anticipated  an  earnest 
Welcome,  but  she  was  allowed  to  wait  with- 
out any,  and  thus  at  the  very  outset  her  heart 
sank,  nnd  she  felt  herself  a  prey  to  strange, 
dark  fears  and  forebodings. 

At  length,  Saunders  directc<l  her  atten- 
tion to  an  advancing  figure.  This  one  was 
preceded  by  the  guard,  and  looked  as  though 
he  might  bo  the  messenger  sent  to  reeeivo 
her.  As  he  drew  near,  Inez  could  see  his 
face  quite  plainly;  for  it  wan  turned  tow- 
ard the  cars,  over  wliieh  his  eyes  wandered 
as  though  in  search  of  some  one.  The  ap- 
proach of  this  messenger  might  at  another 
time  have  quelled  her  rising  fears ;  but  tho 
aspect  of  this  man  had  in  it  something  which 
Inez  did  not  find  at  all  reassuring;  and  thu 
face  on  which  she  expected  to  see  an  air  of 
respectful,  if  not  eager,  welcome,  had  in  it 
now  nothing  which  was  not  repellent.  It  was 
a  commonplace  face — a  coarse  and  vulgar  face 
— not  the  face  of  a  man  who  miglit  be  a  friend' 
of  Uernal  Jlordaunt.  It  did  not  seem  bad  or 
vicious ;  it  was  simply  coarse  and  commonplace. 
Xor  was  the  man  a  servant  or  a  footman,  for 
he  was  dressed  as  a  priest,  and  looked  liko 
one  who  might  claim  the  right  to  associate 
with  Bornal  Mordaunt  on  equal  terms.  But, 
though  his  garb  was  clerical,  there  was  noth- 
ing of  the  priest  cither  in  his  face,  or  atti- 
tude, or  m.inner ;  and  the  cloth  had  in  this  in- 
stance failed  most  completely  to  contribute 
its  usual  professional  air  to  the  wearer.  Such, 
then,  was  the  man  who  came  here  to  receive 
Inez. 

Saunders  had  already  risen,  and  went  out- 
side to  speak  to  tho  priest.  Inez  followed 
shortly  after.    Tho  priest  introduced  himself 


! 

I 


120 


AN  OrE.V  QUESTION'. 


5    Ji 


:: 


1 ; 


as  Poro  Gouuod,  and  spoke  a  few  words  of 
conventional  welcome.  Inez  was  not  suffi- 
ciently familiar  with  FrencV  to  j'-vlge  whether 
he  was  a  man  of  cJucation  or  not;  but  there 
was  a  certain  clumsiness  iu  his  manner,  and 
coarseness  of  intonutiou,  which  made  her 
think  that  he  could  not  be ;  yet  how  could 
she  Judge?  Still,  this  was  a  thing  of  no  mo- 
ment, and  her  thoughts  soon  reverted  to  the 
one  uppermost  idea  of  her  mind — her  father  ; 
and  all  the  deep  anxiety  which  she  felt  was 
manifest  in  her  voice  as  she  asked  after  him. 

The  priest  looked  at  her  with  a  quick, 
furtive  glance,  and  then  looked  away. 

"  He  is  very  low,"  said  he,  slowly. 

There  was  something  in  his  face  which 
frightened  Inez.  .She  would  have  asked  more, 
but  could  not.  She  was  afraid  of  hearing  the 
worst.  The  priest  said  no  more,  but  turned, 
and,  with  a  silent  gcstuio,  led  the  way  to  the 
carriage.  Inez  followed.  Saunders  also  fol- 
lowed. On  reaching  the  carriage,  Inez  saw 
that  it  was  a  close  cab.  The  priest  held 
the  door  open.  Kho  got  in,  and  was  followed 
by  Saunders.  The  priest  then  went  to  see 
about  the  luggage,  and,  after  a  short  ab- 
sence, •  returned,  lie  ihcn  got  on  tlie  box 
with  the  driver. 

After  about  half  an  hour's  drive,  the  cab 
stopped.  On  getting  out,  Inez  found  herself 
in  front  of  a  large  and  gloomy  edilice.  She 
followed  the  priest,  who  led  the  way  iu  through 
a  ,'<mall  door,  and  up  a  (light  of  stops,  and 
alc;i?;  a  gallery  which  looked  out  into  a  court- 
yard, lie  then  opened  a  door  which  led  into 
a  room.  It  was  meagrely  funii.shed,  the  floor 
wag  tiled,  and  there  was  a  depressing  gloom 
about  it  whicli  deepened  the  melancholy  de- 
spondency that  Inez  had  all  along  experi- 
enced. 

The  priest  motioned  toward  a  sofa,  and 
asked  Inez  to  sit  down. 

"  Uut  I  wish  to  see  papa,"  said  she,  anx- 
iously. 

"I  will  |;o  and  see,"  said  ilio  priest. 
"  You  must  wait." 

Soying  th'S,  ho  loft  the  room.  This 
strange  proceeding  seemed  unaccountable  to 
Inez,  and  only  ine'c^aBcd  her  fears.  Ho  was 
not  Ion,"  gone ;  jut  tho  time  of  his  absence 
r-acmed  long  indeed  to  her.  She  did  rot  sit 
down,  but  stood,  where  he  had  left  her,  mo- 
tionlesB  and  terrified,  ai  there  ho  found  lier 
OD  hit  return. 

"  Will  'ou  .lot  (it  c  '     '"  he  asked. 


"  But  I  want  to  sec  papa,"  said  Inez. 

"  One  moment,"  said  the  priest.  "  Sit 
down — I  have  something  to  say." 

At  this  strange  delay  Inez  grew  more  agi- 
tated than  ever.  The  priest  seated  himself. 
She  could  not  move.  She  stood  thus,  palo 
and  trembling,  and  looked  at  him  fixedly. 

"  I  have  something  to  say,"  repeated  the 
priest,  "  and  I  am  very  sorry  to  have  to  say 
it." 

lie  paused,  and  leaned  his  elbow  on  his 
knee,  bending  forward  as  he  did  so,  with  his 
eyes  on  tho  floor.  Thus  Inez  no  longer  saw 
hie  face,  b  it  only  the  top  of  his  head.  Now, 
in  moments  of  the  deepest  anxiety,  and  even 
anguish,  it  is  strange  how  often  the  attention 
is  attracted  by  even  trivial  circumstances.  It 
was  so  with  Inez  at  this  time.  Full  of  an- 
guish, with  her  soul  racked  by  suspense,  a 
prey  to  the  gloomiest  forebodings,  waiting 
with  something  like  despair  the  communica- 
tion of  tho  priest,  her  eyes,  as  they  rested 
upon  him,  noticed  this  one  thing  in  the  midst 
of  all  her  af^itation  and  her  despair,  and  that 
was  that  this  priest  had  no  tonsure.  Ilis  hair 
was  a  thick,  bushy  mass  all  over  his  head ; 
and  the  characteristic  mark  of  his  sacred  of- 
fice was  altogetl-.er  wanting.  She  noticed 
this,  and  it  was  with  an  additional  shock  that 
she  did  so.  Yet  it  was  not  till  afterward  that 
she  learned  to  place  any  stress  on  this  one 
fact,  nnd  see  it  in  its  full  Eignificancc.  At 
that  tim3  the  shock  passiul  awuy,  .".nd  yiel'ied 
to  her  uncontrollable  anxiety  about  her  fa- 
ther. 

"  Why  don't  you  sny  what  you  have  to 
say  ?  "  cried  Inez  at  length.  "  I  want  to  see 
papa." 

Tl>8  priest  raised  his  head. 

'I  wish,"  said  he,  in  a  h.  .t  voice,  and 
sp.'aking  very  slowly,  "  to  break  it  as  gently 
as  possible." 

Every  one  of  these  words  was  terrible  to 
Inez.  To  such  a  saying  as  this,  following  af- 
ter such  strange  actions,  there  could  bo  but 
one  meaning,  and  that  one  meaning  must  bo 
the  worst.  Yet,  so  great  was  her  terror  at 
hearing  this,  thai  she  dared  not  ask  another 
((uestion.  She  stood  as  before,  with  her  cycA 
fixed  on  him,  while  he  kept  his  cyoB  averted. 

"  I  did  not  tell  you  before,"  said  the 
priest.  "  I  wished  to  prepare  you.  I  wished 
to  do  it  gradually.  I  must  prepare  you  for 
the  worjt — the  very  worst." 

He  paused. 


THE  STORY  OF   INEZ. 


m 


d  Inez. 
riost.    "  Sit 

w  more  agi- 
tcd  himself, 
tbua,  pulo 
lixedly. 
cpcatcd  tlie 
Lave  to  say 

bow  on  liis 
80,  with  Lis 
longer  saw 
cad.    Now, 
y,  and  even 
he  attention 
istances.   It 
Full  of  an- 
suspense,  a 
ngg,  Tt  ailing 
coramunica- 
they  rested 
in  tlie  midst 
air,  and  that 
c.     His  hair 
'r  his  he;i(i ; 
is  sacred  of- 
Siie  noticed 
Ll  shock  that 
fterward  that 
on  tliis  ono 
licancc.    At 
,  .".nd  viehk'd 
jout  her  fa- 
ton  have  to 
wnnt  to  SCO 


r  voice,  and 
it  a.s  gently 

i  terrible  to 
following  af- 
ould  bo  but 
ng  must  bo 
or  terror  at 
a^k  another 
ith  her  eye.i 
ves  averted. 
,"  said  the 
I.  I  wished 
^arc  you  for 


Inez  stared  at  him. 

"  He — is — dead ! "  she  faUcrcd,  in  a  scarce 
t'uliblc  voice. 

The  priest  looked  at  her  with  a  siguiCcant 
glance,  and  in  silence. 

"When?  "asked  Inez,  spcakhi^  with  a 
great  cilbrt,  but  in  a  faint  voice. 

"  Three  days  ago,"  said  the  priest. 

Inez  gavo  a  low  moan,  and  staggered  tow- 
ard the  Eofa.  Saunders  sprang  up  and  as- 
sisted her.  iSlio  sank  down  upon  it,  and, 
burying  her  face  in  Lcr  hands,  remained  si- 
lent and  motionless,  yet  an  occasional  shud- 
der showed  tlii3  sulferiug  of  Iier  mind.  Nor 
was  this  BulTcving  without  a  cduse.  True,  it 
was  not  like  losing  a  father  whose  love  she  had 
always  known ;  but  still,  ever  since  the  dis- 
covery of  the  portraits,  slie  had  thought  much 
of  Bcrnal  Mordauut,  and  had  conceived  for 
him  all  a  daughter's  feelings.  t<he  had  re- 
called Diany  of  tiie  reminiscences  of  early 
ohildhoid.  Above  all,  his  last  letter  to  her 
had  thrown  around  these  feelings  additional 
strength  and  tender  ss.  During  her  jour- 
ney these  feelings  had  increased,  and  all  her 
life  and  all  her  hope  seemed  to  refer  to  the 
meeting  with  him  which  she  was  seeking. 
Kow,  in  an  instant,  nil  this  tender  love  was 
blighted,  and  all  this  eager  hope  made  for- 
ever vain.  The  blow  was  a  severe  one,  and 
Iner.  wclhiigh  saak  under  it. 

The  priest  looked  at  her  with  clo.se  obser- 
vition,  but  with  no  particular  sympathy  Thus 
fur  he  had  been  somewhat  embarrassed  while 
subject  to  the  Bearehing  gaze  of  luez.  Now, 
when  that  gaze  was  removed,  and  her  head 
buried  in  her  hands,  he  was  able  to  speak 
with  Ireedoni. 

"  lie  died  three  days  ago,"  said  the  priest, 
speaking  somewhat  less  slowly  than  before, 
and  in  what  may  be  described  as  a  wary  and 
vigilant  manner;  watching  Inez  all  the  while 
most  ottentively — "  three  days  ago,  lie  wrote 
a  long  letter — a  very  long  letter — too  long  a 
letter,  indeed — to  you,  asking  you  to  come 
licrc.  Well,  after  that  he  fainted.  It  was  an 
liour  beloro  ho  revived.  Then  we  knew — and 
he  knew,  too — that  he  was — dying  I  Hut 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done,  for  he  was  be- 
yond hope.  .  .  .  Well  "  continued  the  priest, 
after  a  pause,  in  which  liis  eyes  never  re- 
moved themselves  from  Inez,  who  still  re- 
mained with  her  head  bowed  down  and  buried 
in  her  hands — "  well,  then  the  poor  man 
called  for  writing-materials  again.     We  t^up- 


plied  him  with  tli-'in.  ^Ve  r-iai.'d  him  upon 
his  bed,  so  that  he  might  be  iu  a  position  to 
write.  He  took  the  pen,  and  at  first  could 
hardly  hold  it.  Uut  at  length  he  made  a 
great  elfort,  and  wrote  about  a  page.  That 
was  all  that  he  was  able  to  do,  and,  in  my 
opinion,  it  was  just  one  page  too  much;  but 
we  had  to  indulge  him,  for  he  was  so  eager 
about  it — and  what  can  yoa  do  with  a  dying 
man?  Well,  that  was  too  much.  He  fell 
back  exhausted,  and  -lever  Fpoke  one  word 
more.  In  two  hours  oil  was  over,  and  he  had 
haroly  life  and  sense  enough  to  receive  the 
vhiticnni  Tliat  was  tliree  du\3  ago.  You  re- 
ceived his  letter,  and  waited  till  you  could 
leave,  and  have  spent  this  third  day  in  travel- 
ling here.  This  brings  you  hero  at  the  ch/so 
of  the  third  day.  It  is  a  pity  that  you  'lad 
not  come  before,  for  he  loved  you  dea'ly. 
But  sliU  his  last  thmights  were  of  you,  a'ul 
Ills  l.i "  words,  t.j,»,  r  the  letter  that  ha 
wrote  was  for  you." 

At  this  Inez  started  up. 

"  I'tr  me  ! "'  siie  exclaimed.     "  Is  there — 
did  he  Ir-.ve  any  message  for  mc?  " 

"  The  letter  that  I  have  boon  telling  you 
about  was  for  you." 

"  Have  you  got  it  ?  "  cried  Inez,  c.igcrly. 

"  It  is  hero — for  you — if  you  wish  to  seo 
it,"  said  the  priest. 

"Oh,   let    ni'!   have  it — let  mc  see  it!" 
said  Inez,  in  a  tone  of  mournful  entreaty. 

"  You  shall  see  it,  of  course,"  said  tho 
priest.  "It  is  for  you,  and  it  is  waiting  for 
you.  It  is  a  pity  that  you  have  not  come  in 
time  for  somclhing  better  than  a  letter.  Tho 
poor  Abbe  Mordaunt  would  have  been  greatly 
cheered,  ^\'o  urged  him  to  send  for  you  be- 
fore, but  he  was  full  of  hoiio  that  he  would 
rceoverand  bo  able  to  go  to  you.  lie  was  un 
willing  to  put  you  to  the  trouble  of  a  journey. 
He  never  knew  how  ill  he  w.is  till  ihe  last, 
and  then  it  was  too  lute.  He  came  iiomo  from 
his  mission  with  broken  health.  lie  allowed 
himself  no  vest.  An  affair  at  Villeneuve  agi. 
tatcd  him  greatly,  and  preyed  on  his  mind. 
It  was  something  that  occurred  there,  and 
other  things  that  he  heard  of  after  his  ar- 
rival here.  He  sank  quite  rapidly,  poor  man  ! 
And  all  the  time  he  pcriisicd  in  the  hope  that 
he  woi  M  recover.  A;.  !v\st  the  doctor  told 
him  th.  'r  '.Ih,  and  th^in  he  w.-olo  for  yru. 
IJul  it  was  too  late.  Tlie  effort  of  wriiing 
hastened  tho  end,  and  so,  t.r  1  said,  he  did  not 
live  out  that  dav.    Still  ho  left  bia  last  In- 


128 


Ax\   Ul'EX   QUESTION. 


Itt 


I 


\ 


[  \\. 


Etructions  for  you,  and  I  Lave  kept  that  letter 
to  be  given  into  your  own  liands.  And  here  it 
is-  I  tooli  it  from  his  own  hands,  and  put  it 
in  this  envelop,  and  wrote  your  name  on  it." 
Saying  this,  the  priest  drew  forth  a  letter 
from  his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  Inez.  She 
took  it  with  a  quick,  nervous,  eager  gi-asp. 
Tho  cavelop  bore  the  address  in  a  strange 
hand,  simply — 

"  Inez  Jlordaunt." 

This  the  priest  had  explained.  Hut  this 
she  did  not  notice.  All  her  thoughts  were 
turned  to  the  letter  itself — the  last  words  of 
her  father,  now  lost  forever — her  father, 
found  so  strangely,  lost  so  suddenly.  With  a 
trembling  hand  she  tore  open  the  envelop, 
and  the  last  words  of  that  father  lay  before 
her  eves. 


CnAPTER  XXXI. 


IX  rnisos. 


Isrz  tore  open  the  letter  and  read  the  fol- 
lowing : 

*'  Mr  DEAREST  Daughter  :  1  have  just  writ- 
ten to  you  to  come  to  mc.  It  is  too  late.  I 
am  dying.  I  should  have  gone  on  to  you.  I 
have  scarcely  strength  enough  loft  to  write 
this.  There  arc  many  things  which  I  wish  to 
explain.  But  this  explanation  cannot  now 
bo  given  by  mo.  My  beloved  child,  I  leave 
you,  and  forever,  but  I  de  not  leave  you  friend- 
less, I  have  one  good  and  tried  friend — tho 
friend  of  a  life ;  and,  though  I  must  leave 
you,  I  am  able  to  console  myself  with  the 
thought  that  you  will  be  cared  for.  My  dear 
friend,  true  auJ  tried,  Kevin  Ma^ratli,  I  ap- 
point as  your  guardian.  He  will  be  to  you, 
my  daughter,  another  guardian.  He  will  !ove 
tho  child  of  his  friend  as  his  own  child. 
Trust  in  him.  Love  him  as  your  father.  lie 
will  do  for  you  all  tlii.t  I  could  have  done. 
He  will  tfU  you  all  about  mo,  and  about  tiiat 
past  which  has  been  so  dark  to  you.  You 
will  have  a  great  grief,  but  do  not  give  way 
to  it,  my  child.  Trust  in  Heaven  and  in  my 
friend  Kevin  Magratli — father  to  fatherless- 
go  long  journey — never  a<;^iti  which — I  have 
— formerly — in  vain — mother — just  the — last 
■vords — not  at  all — mission — broken — faint — 
wishes  —  love — Kevin — Kevin  Magrath — for- 
ever— father — " 


There  was  no  signature.  The  letter  ended 
with  several  lines  of  undecipherable  writing, 
in  which  a  few  Avords  were  here  and  thero 
discernible  —  words  without  connection  and 
without  meaning. 

Inez  read  it  all  over  many  time,  and  was 
troubled  in  soul.  It  was  not  what  she  had 
expected.  It  was  a  letter  that  excited  dark 
fears  and  anxieties.  The  eircuinstanllal  ac- 
count which  the  priest  had  given  her  did  not 
at  all  reassure  her.  For  sonic  time  past  she 
had  been  living  in  an  atmosphere  of  mystery, 
and  had  learned  to  indulge  in  a  suspicioud 
habit  of  mind  ;  and  so  it  was  that  this  letter 
added  vague  and  alarming  su.spieioiiS  to  tho 
anxieties  which  it  caused. 

All  those  fears,  anxieties,  and  suspicions, 
derived  their  origin  from  one  name  mentioned 
there.  It  was  a  name  that  was  meulioued 
with  emphasis — tlie  name  of  a  man  that  she 
had  learned  to  regard  as  an  enemy — and  yet 
this  man  was  indicated  to  her  by  this  letter 
as  her  father's  true  and  tried  friend,  and 
urged  upon  her  trust  and  all'ection.  He  wai 
to  be  her  guardian.  How  was  it  possible  for 
her  to  read  such  a  letter  as  this  without  the 
darkest  suspicions  ? 

For  the  present,  however,  the.sc  gave  way 
to  a  yearning  desire  to  see,  if  possible,  all 
that  was  left  of  tho  man  whom  slio  had  re- 
garded as  her  fi.ther-— her  father  discovered 
so  strangely,  yet  lost  so  suddenly.  Was  it 
too  late  for  that  ?  She  turned  once  more  to 
the  priest : 

"  May  I  not  see  him  *  "  she  asked,  iu  a 
tremulous  voiie. 

"  See  him  ? "  repeated  the  priest. 

"Yes,"  said  Inez,  "my  papa.  If  I  could 
only  see  him — one  last  look — " 

"  See  him ! "  repealed  the  priest,  in  a 
strange  lone — "  see  him  !  " 

He  hesitated  and  looked  away. 

"  If  I  only  could,"  said  Inez,  "  if  it  is  not 
too  late." 

"Too  late?"  said  tho  priest,  shaking  his 
head.  "Alas  I  it's  too  late — too  kite.  You've 
said  it.  That's  whit  it  is.  Too  late — yes,  too 
late — too  late." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Inez,  do- 
apairingly.  "  Can  1  not  have  at  least  tho 
sad  satisfaction  of  seeing  Lim  as  he  is 
now  ?  " 

Tho  priest  looked  at  lior  with  Lis  usual 
furtive  glance. 

"  liut  he's  gone  ! "  said  he. 


Litter  eudcd 

jlu  writing, 

aud  tliuro 

icctiou  and 

esj,  and  was 
ut  she  biul 
suited  dark 
stanlial  ae- 
iier  did  not 
:ic  past  she 
of  mystery, 
,  suspicioud 
t  tliis  letter 
ioiiS  to  the 

suspicions, 
3  muiitioncd 
,  mculioued 
lan  that  slie 
ly — and  yet 
y  this  letter 

friend,  anil 
)n.     lie  wai 

possible  for 
without  the 

sc  gave  way 
possible,  all 
she  bad  rc- 
r  discovered 
ily.  M'as  it 
nee  more  to 

asked,  in  a 

est. 
Jf  I  could 

priest,   in   a 

y. 

"  if  it  is  not 

,  sbakin<;  bis 
late.  You've 
late — yes,  too 

kcd  Inez,  de- 
al least  tho 
im  as    ho  is 

ith  Lis  usual 


i  5 


i 


I 


y 


IN  PRISOX. 


129 


^^. 


L-J^•.■ 


if  " ■■ 


"Gone!"  repeated  Inez,  in  a  bewilJcrcd 
voice. 

"  Yes,  gone,"  said  the  priest. 

"  But  how  ?  "  said  Inez.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ? " 

"  Buried ! "  said  tho  priest,  in  a  solemn 
voice. 

"  Buried ! " 

Inez  repeated  tho  word,  but  was  so  over- 
whelmed  by  the  thought  that  she  did  not 
seem  to  l;now  what  it  meant.  "  Buried  1 " 
she  said  again,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  to  her- 
self, and,  as  she  said  this,  she  shranlc  buck 
witli  a  frightened  look. 

Buried  ! 

"It  was  three  days  ago  that  ho  died," 
said  the  priest.  "lie  was  buried  this  morn- 
ing.   You  can  never  see  him  again." 

At  this  overwhelming  intelligence  Inez 
stared  at  the  priest  with  an  expression  in  her 
face  that  seemed  like  horror.  Then  she  looked 
wildly  around.  Then  she  once  more  bowed 
her  head,  and  this  time  she  burst  into  a  torrent 
of  tears.  She  had  readied  tho  lowest  point  in 
that  abyss  of  sorroTr  which  she  had  been  de- 
scending, and  there  she  found  that  tho  last 
fnint  consolation  was  denied  her.  The  faith- 
ful Saunders  rushed  to  her  aid.  Tho  priest 
sat  motionless  watching  her.  But  to  Inez 
the  faithful  Saunders  and  the  priest  were 
both  alike  objects  of  indifference,  for  all  her 
thoughts  were  now  turned  toward  the  sharp- 
ness of  this  sudden  bereavement  and  the  des- 
olation of  her  present  state. 

For  a  long  time  Inez  remained  in  that 
rondition,  overwhelmed  by  grief  and  racked 
by  convulsive  sobs  that  shook  her  frame. 
Tho  priest  watched  her  still  with  that  vigi- 
lant gaze  which  he  directed  toward  her  when- 
ever her  eyes  wore  not  turned  toward  him. 
Sometimes  ho  looked  towrrd  the  faithful 
Saunders,  and  the  eyes  of  the  faithful  Saunders 
met  his ;  and,  as  the  eyes  of  tho  good  priest 
and  of  the  faithful  Saunders  met,  there  seemed 
to  be  some  kind  of  intelligence  between  them. 
But,  if  tiicrc  was  any  such  intelligence,  it  sat- 
isfied itself  just  then  with  a  silent  glance, 
and  deferred  any  expression  in  words  until  a 
more  convenient  opportunity. 

The  blow  which  had  thus  fallen  upon  Inez 
was  one  from  which  she  could  not  readily  re- 
cover, Housing  herself  at  length  from  her 
first  prostration,  her  only  desire  was  for  se- 
clusion, where  slie  might  give  herself  up  more 
entirely  to  her  gloomy  thoughts.    The  faith- 


ful Saunders  accompanied  her  to  the  place, 
which  was  pointed  out  to  them  by  an  old 
woman  whom  the  priest  sent,  and  who  ap- 
peared to  be  a  combination  of  char-woman, 
chamber-maid,  and  lady's-maid.  The  room 
to  which  Tnez  was  thus  shown  had  a  greater 
air  of  comfort  than  the  other,  yet  still  it  was 
furnished  in  a  scanty  manner,  and  the  tiled 
floor,  with  one  or  two  small  rugs  here  and  there, 
had  a  cheerless  air.  Hero  Inez  found  her 
luggage,  and  the  faithful  Saunders  proceeded 
to  open  her  trunks  and  arrange  her  things. 
But  Inez  paid  no  attention  to  her.  Sheilung 
herself  upon  a  couch,  and  the  faithful  Saun- 
ders, finding  that  she  was  not  needed,  finished 
her  task,  and  silently  withdrew. 

Inez  ate  nothing  that  day,  and  slept  nono 
on  the  following  night.  In  truth,  her  posi- 
tion was  one  which  might  have  seemed  gloom  v 
indeed,  even  to  a  more  sanguine  temper. 
There  was  about  it  a  dreadful  sense  of  deso- 
lation, from  which  she  could  not  escape.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  lost  her  father, 
her  home,  her  country,  and  every  friend  that 
she  ever  had.  In  her  father's  last  letter  sho 
had  read  that  which  seemed  to  her  to  put  a, 
climax  upon  all  her  woes.  Before  tliat  sho 
had  been  simply  friendless  and  in  exile,  but 
now  she  found  herself  handed  over  to  tho 
guardianship  of  one  of  whom  she  had  learned 
to  think  with  abhorrence.  She  could  not 
forget  the  letter  which  had  struck  down  Hen- 
nigar  Wyverne  at  Villcneuve,  and  that  this 
letter  had  been  written  by  Kevin  Magrath. 

For  several  days  she  gave  herself  up 
completely  to  deep  despondency ;  and,  so 
strongly  did  it  prey  upon  her  spirits,  that 
at  length  she  became  quite  ill.  In  this  con- 
dition she  remained  for  several  weeks,  and 
tho  profound  dejection  into  which  she  had 
fallen  made  her  "ompletcly  indifferent  about 
her  recovery.  During  this  time  the  faithful 
Saunders  nursed  her.  At  length  her  youth 
and  vigorous  constitution  triumphed  over  her 
illness,  and  the  lapse  of  time  familiarized  her 
mind  so  much  to  her  new  position  that,  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  things,  it  began  to  ap- 
pear less  intolerable.  Soon  she  grew  stronger, 
and  the  buoyancy  of  her  spirits  led  her  to 
indulge  rather  in  hopes  for  tlie  best.  At 
lengtti  she  was  able  to  go  out  of  her  room, 
and  walk  up  and  down  the  apartments  and 
out  into  the  gallery. 

f'le  house  was  old  and  gloomy.  There 
was  a  small  court-yard  enclosed  by  its  walls. 


Uj 


130 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION'. 


P 


'I. 


I      r 


On  the  Bide  wberc  she  lived  was  an  open  gal- 
lery, I'rom  which  her  iiuite  of  rooniB  opened. 
Ho  one  else  seemed  to  be  living  in  tlie  house 
except  the  priest  and  the  old  woman,  with 
herself  and  the  faithful  Saunders.  This  Inst 
personage  was  as  devoted  as  ever.  Of  the 
priest  she  saw  but  little,  and  of  the  old  wom- 
an still  less.  Siie  was  thus  left  very  much  to 
herself,. nor  did  the  solitude  seem  unpleasant. 
Ou  the  contrary,  it  was  rather  congenial  to 
tliat  pene^ive  melancholy  which  bad  set  in 
after  tlie  first  outburst  of  grief  and  despair, 

At  length,  one  day,  while  thinking  over  her 
lonely  condition,  she  reflected  that  there  was 
one  friend  of  hers  in  Paris  who  might  be  glad 
to  know  that  she  was  here.  This  was  Dr. 
Blake,  whoso  place  in  her  regards  Lad  not 
grown  less  prominent,  in  spite  o.''  the  mournful 
events  of  the  time  vjat  hud  elapsed  since  she 
left  Villcneuve.  It  came  to  hei  like  a  very 
pleasant  thought,  and  the  idea  occurred  that, 
if  she  should  go  out,  it  might  cot  bo  impos- 
sible to  sec  him  boraewhere,  or  be  seen  by 
him.  Her  loneliness  made  thii  one  friend 
Bccm  now  more  valuable  than  t'c  had  seemed 
.before ;  and  bhe  had  no  sooner  thought  of 
this  than  she  at  once  sought  to  put  it  into 
execution.  Accordingly,  she  dressed  herself 
.for  a  walk,  and  was  about  to  go  out  alone, 
•wlicu  Saunders  respectfully  interfered,  and 
implo<-cd  her  not  to  do  so.  To  the  wondering 
inquiry  of  Inez,  "  Why  not  ?  "  the  faithful 
Saunders  pleaded  her  weakncs.s,  and  the  dan- 
gers of  the  Paris  streets.  Finullj,  Inez  con- 
80Uted  to  tukc  a  drive  instead  of  a  walk. 

The  cairiagc  which  took  her  out  was  net 
the  most  cheerful  kind  of  a  one.  It  was  the 
same  close  cab  wliich  had  brought  her  from 
the  railway-station.  The  faithful  Saunders 
•went  with  her,  though  Inez  at  first  seemed 
rather  inclined  to  go  alone.  But  this  seemed 
80  to  wound  the  affectionate  heart  of  the 
faithful  one  that  Inez,  good-naturedly  con- 
Beiited  to  lot  hor  go. 

The  drive  did  not  result  in  any  thing.  On 
the  whole,  Inez  felt  very  much  disappointed 
in  Parif.  She  had  heard  so  much  about  its 
splendor  that  she  had  expected  to  find  some- 
thing very  difl'erunt.  Bhe  mentioned  several 
places  whose  names  were  familiar,  to  which 
she  wi.shcil  to  be  driven,  but,  on  seeing  therar 
she  found  that  they  did  not  come  up  to  her 
expectation.''.  She  was  driven  through  a 
number  of  narrow  slrcctsi,  finally  along  a 
wide  but  bare-looking    place,  then   into  the 


narrow  streets  again ;  then  out  into  the  wide 
place,  until  she  was  thoroughly  r/earied,  and 
did  not  care  to  continue  her  drive  any  longer. 

After  this  she  went  out  on  almost  every 
fine  day,  and  with  the  same  result.  Baimders 
always  went  with  her ;  sh**  always  saw  the 
same  commonplace  streets ;  she  never  saw 
any  one  who  looked  like  Dr.  Blake. 

And  this  was  Park  I 

She  could  not  help  fueling  amazed  at  tbe 
reputation  of  so  mean  &  city  ! 

Once  or  twice  she  thought  of  shopping. 
But  from  this  she  was  prevented  by  a  circum- 
stance which  was  at  once  paltry  and  humiliat- 
ing— she  had  no  money.  The  letter  of  Bernal 
Mordaunt  had  told  her  not  to  bring  more 
than  was  needed  for  her  trip,  and  the  small 
amount  which  she  happened  to  have  in  her 
purse  had  been  exhausted.  Even  had  she 
needed  more,  she  would  not  have  known  at 
that  time  whom  to  ask  for  it.  She  could  not 
ask  Bessie.  Mr.  Wyvcrne,  who  bad  always 
before  supplied  her  liberally,  was  dead ;  and 
she  did  not  know  any  one  else  to  whom  she 
could  apply.  For  this  cause  she  had  left  her 
home  thus  ill-supplieJ  with  money,  and  now 
she  felt,  for  the  first  lime  in  her  life,  the  help- 
lessness of  poverty. 

It  was  this  poverty,  together  with  her 
loneliness  and  ftiendlessuesB,  that  brought  the 
questions  before  her,  over  and  over.  What 
was  she  to  do  ?  What  would  become  of  her  ? 
IJ  w  long  would  this  life  go  ou  ?  She  her- 
9eit'  could  do  nothing,  and  did  not  know  how 
she  ever  could  d"  any  thing.  The  world  of 
the  past  was  lost  forever  to  her. 

These  drives  at  length  became  tedious  to 
Inez.  She  did  cot  like  to  be  always  accom- 
panied by  Saunders,  and  the  sense  of  restraint 
which  she  felt  in  the  close  cab  was  irksome. 
She  felt  strong  enough  to  go  alone  by  herself, 
and  one  (lay  resolved  to  do  so.  >She  simply 
informed  the  faithful  Saunders  that  she  was 
going  out  for  a  short  walk,  and  wished  to  bo 
alone.  Saunders  saw  by  her  manner  that  she 
was  resolved,  and  said  nothiu|.%  but  meekly 
acquiesced.  Inez  was  soon  ready,  and  went 
out  into  the  gallery  on  hor  way  down. 

At  the  end  of  the  gallery  was  a  door  which 
opened  into  a  stairway.  To  the  surprise  of 
Inez,  this  door  was  locked.  She  had  often 
before  noticed  that  it  was  closed,  but,  having 
not  had  any  reason  for  trying  it,  she  bad 
never  known  that  it  was  locked  ;  ind,  ou  tho 
occasion  iif  h«  r  dilvos,  it  luid  always  been 


LIGHT  ox   THE   SITUATION. 


131 


o  the  wido 
;aried,  and 
iny  longer, 
nost  erery 
Baimdcrs 
ta  saw  the 
never  flaw 


izod  at  the 

f  shopping. 
)y  a  circum- 
nd  humiliat- 
cr  of  Bernal 
tiring  more 
d  the  small 
have  in  her 
;en  liud  she 
e  known  at 
be  could  not 

bud  always 
)  dead ;  and 
,0  whom  eho 

had  left  her 
ey,  and  now 
life,  the  help- 

ler  with  her 
t  brought  the 
over,  What 
come  of  her  ? 
1?  She  her- 
ot  know  how 
L"he  world  of 

me  tedious  to 
ilwayfi  ocoom- 
8c  of  restraint 
wan  irksome, 
nc  by  herself, 
She  simply 

that  she  waa 
wished  to  bo 
nnucr  that  she 
p,  but  meekly 
ally,  and  went 

down. 

9  a  door  which 
he  surprise  of 
iho  hud  often 
jd,  but,  having 
ig  it,  she  had 
1 ;  and,  on  tho 
always  been 


open.  Xow,  however,  she  was  vexed  to 
perceive  that  her  plan  for  going  out  ulono 
was  attended  with  difTtcullics,  She  stood 
for  some  time  knoeking,  but  to  no  pur- 
pose ;  and  at  length  coneluded  that  it  must 
be  accidental,  or  rather  that  it  rose  from  an 
excess  of  precaution  on  the  part  of  the  stupid 
old  woman.  In  spite  of  this  simple  mode  of 
accounting  for  such  an  unpleasant  fact,  Inez 
felt  not  only  disappointed  but  also  troubled; 
and  a  vague  suspicion  arose  that  her  sur- 
roundings were  not  so  satisfactory  as  they 
might  be.  There  seemed  to  be  too  much 
surveillance.  Some  one  was  always  with  her. 
The  faithful  Saunders  was  a  trifle  too  faith- 
ful. Of  that  personage  she  knew  but  little. 
She  had  been  her  maid  for  not  over  three 
months,  and  Inez  had  never  thought  of  her 
personal  pcculiaritie.<).  She  had  been  satis- 
fied with  tho  faithful  performance  of  the  du- 
ties which  pertained  to  tho  responsible  oflice 
of  S.iunders,  and  had  never  had  occasion  to 
think  about  her  more  deeply.  And,  though 
she  tried  to  drive  away  the  thought  as  un- 
generous, she  could  not  help  fearing  that 
tlie  faithful  Saunders  might  be  watching  over 
her  from  other  motives  than  those  of  aflec- 
tionate  and  loyal  solicitude. 

Inez  waited  all  day  for  that  door  to  open, 
but  it  did  not.  She  sat  with  her  things  on. 
Saunders  prepared  lunch  at  tho  usual  hour, 
but  Inez  was  too  indignant  to  touch  it.  At 
length,  at  about  six  in  the  evening,  the  old 
woman  came  up  with  dinner.  The  first  \m- 
pul.su  >  C  Inez  was  to  give  her  a  sound  rating, 
but  this  was  repressed,  and  she  contented 
herself  with  telling  her  about  her  disappoint- 
ment, and  directing  her  to  have  the  door  loft 
open  on  tliL-  following  day.  At  this,  tho  old 
woman  stared,  but  said  nothing. 

On  tiie  following  day,  however,  the  very 
same  thing  occurred,  and  Inez,  who  had  again 
drossijd  herself  for  a  walk,  was  unable  to  go. 
This  lime  she  could  not  restrain  herself. 

"  There's  something  about  this  tliat  I  do 
not  understand,"  said  she  to  Saunders  as  she 
returned  to  her  room.  "  Do  you  know  what 
it  means,  Saunders  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  indeed,  miss ! "  said  Saunders ; 
"  me  ?— tho  idea ! " 

"  Perhaps  you  can  get  tho  door  open,  or 
-make  them  hear  you,  Saunders;  you  seem  to 
have  some  understanding  with  those  people." 

At  this  Saunders  rolled  up  her  eyes. 

"  Ue,  miss  1    }lo  an  understanding,  that 


never  set  eyes  on  them  before  in  all  my  born 
day.«,  and  only  follered  you  hero  to  this  town 
because  you  was  wantin'  me,  and  homesick 
now  as  I  be  in  this  gloomy  den!  Why,  what- 
ever you  can  mean,  miss,  bcggin'  your  par- 
don, is  more'n  I  can  tell,  and  I  only  hope  you 
don't  see  any  thing  in  me  that's  underhand — 
for,  if  80,  I  maybe  better  go  away." 

At  this  Inez  was  startled.  To  lose  Saun- 
ders would  bo  too  much.  She  had  spokea 
too  hastily.  Her  suspicions  were  wrong. 
She  hiistened,  therefore,  to  smooth  over  tho 
rufiled  feelings  of  the  faithful  one,  and  Saun- 
ders subsided  into  her  usual  calm. 

That  evening  at  dinner  the  priest  came  in. 
This  man  had  always  been  distasteful  to  Inez, 
but  now  was  all  the  more  so,  since  she  could 
not  understand  what  he  was  or  what  his  in- 
tentions were.  She  had  not  forgotten  that  ho 
had  no  tonsure ;  she  did  not  believe  that  he 
could  be  u  priest  at  all,  and  the  suspicion  that 
ho  was  disguised  was  a  most  unpleasant  one. 
On  this  occasion  Inez  at  once  informed  him 
about  the  door,  and  told  him  that  it  must  not 
occur  again.  Her  tone  was  somewhat  haughty, 
and  she  unconsciously  adopted  an  air  of  com- 
mand in  addressing  him. 

Tho  priest  loolced  down,  avoiding  her  eyes 
an  usual. 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  said  he ;  "  you  havo 
gone  out  whenever  you  wished.  The  door  is 
kept  locked — on  account  of  thieves — as  there 
arc  so  few  servants — and  the  woman  is  so  old 
and  stupid." 

"Very  well,"  said  Inez;  "I  wish  to  go 
out  to-morrow,  and  I  should  like  you  to  tell 
the  old  woman,  so  that  she  nC'-d  not  make 
any  more  of  those  stupid  mistakes." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

LIGHT    OS    TIC£    SITCATIOM. 

Saunheiis  had  ahvays  been  what  is  called 
a  "  faithful  creature,"  and  Inez  had  thus  far 
found  her  quite  invaluable.  It  was  on  the 
morning  after  her  last  interview  with  Gou- 
nod, however,  that  Inez  mado  the  discovery 
that  there  were  limits  to  the  fidelity  of  her 
maid.  On  that  morning  tho  faithful  Saun- 
ders did  not  mak  ;  iier  appearance ;  and  Inez, 
after  waiting  an  unusually  long  time,  con- 
cluded that  she  must  bo  ill.    With  this  idea 


f; 


u\ 


I  ' 


;  I 


;l 


H 


13; 


AN'   OPEN   QUESTION". 


Bho  went  to  soo  aftin'  licr,  but,  o«  going  to 
hor  room,  found  that  no  one  was  thurc.  At 
tliis  she  ft'lt  annoyed  ;  it  looked  like  neglect, 
and  Bhe  went  immediately  to  the  parlor  in 
search  of  her  maid,  with  the  intention  of  ad- 
ministering a  pretty  sharp  rebuke.  Here, 
however,  there  were  no  sign.'?  of  her ;  and  a 
little  further  search  showed  her  that  she  must 
have  gone  away.  A  sudden  suspicion  then 
darted  acros.s  her  mind.  She  hurried  back  to 
the  maid's  room.  On  entering,  the  suspicion 
was  confirmed.  The  trunk  was  not  there. 
Saunders  must  Lavo  left  her,  for  she  Lad 
taken  her  trunk. 

This  discovery  was  so  painful  that  at  first 
she  felt  finite  stupefied.  She  could  not  ima- 
gine how  Saunders  could  have  done  it,  or 
how  Gounod  could  have  allowed  it;  but,  for 
the  present,  her  mind  was  less  occupied  with 
Fpcculations  about  the  mode  of  her  departure 
than  with  painful  efforts  to  imagine  the  cause 
of  it.  Saunders  had  always  been  so  profuse 
in  her  protestations  of  fidelity,  and  so  unre- 
mitting in  her  services,  that  this  sudden  de- 
parture seemed  to  give  the  lie  to  it  all.  ]t 
seemed  like  treachery,  and  the  case  with 
which  she  had  gone  made  it  appear  us  though 
Gounod  had  connived  at  it. 

In  the  midst  of  these  thoughts  the  old 
woman  an'ived,  and  began  her  ordinary  rou- 
tine of  duties,  which  consisted  in  laying  t'.ie 
breakfast  table  and  making  the  beds.  Inez 
did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  say  any  thing 
to  her,  but  waited  patiently  until  she  had  fin- 
ished her  task,  when  she  asked  her  to  tell 
Gounod  that  she  wouhl  like  to  see  him.  In 
about  half  an  hour,  Gounod  came. 

To  her  story  about  the  sudden  departure 
of  the  maid,  Gounod  li.'»tened  rcspectl'iilly,  and 
nt  onco  explained.  IIo  informed  Inez  that 
Saunders  told  him,  the  evening  before,  that 
she  had  received  sudden  intelligence  of  the 
dangerous  illness  of  her  mother,  and  would 
have  to  go  and  sec  her  at  once ;  and  that  he 
had  got  a  cab,  and  taken  her  to  the  railway- 
Btation.  The  maid,  ho  added,  had  told  him 
that  siie  did  no',  like  to  toll  her  mistress 
about  it;  that  slic  felt  very  badly  at  leaving 
her  under  such  circumstanee.",  an<l  requested 
Gounod  to  make  all  necessary  explanations. 
Finally,  Gounod  oflercd  to  procure  her  an- 
other maid,  either  a  J'rcnch  or  an  English 
one,  whichever  she  preferred. 

Inez  thanked  him,  l)ut  replied  that  for  the 
present  fho  did  not  feel  hiclincd  to  have  a 


nuiid ;  and,  after  a  few  more  word.-*,  Gounod 
withdrew. 

Gounod's  explaiuUion  had  not  altogether 
satisfied  Inez.  It  was  certainly  a  very  natu- 
ral and  a  "ory  probable  cause  for  the  de- 
parture of  .>aundcr3  ;  but  still  Inez  coulJ  not 
help  thinking  that  there  was  something  else 
at  the  bottom  of  this.  Either  Saunders  might 
have  grown  weary  of  her  lonely  life,  or  else, 
as  she  had  thought  before,  she  might  be  iu 
some  mysterious  league  with  (iouuod.  The 
peculiar  conduct  of  that  personage  had  al- 
ready seemed  suspicious,  and  now  it  seemed 
still  more  so. 

After  all,  however,  in  spite  of  a  certain 
degree  of  inconvenience  which  resulted  from 
it,  Inez  was  not  altogetlier  i-orry  to  be  with- 
out a  maid.  She  felt  somcwiiat  vexed  at  the 
manner  in  which  S.iundcrs  had  left  her,  and 
there  were  circumstances  connected  with  her 
departure  which  excited  vague  suspicions  in 
her  mind  ;  yet.  on  the  whole,  she  was  not  par- 
ticularly distressed  about  it.  The  fact  is,  the 
constant  attendance  of  Saunders  during  the 
drives  had  grown  to  be  excessively  irksome, 
ller  plea  had  been  fidelity ;  but  Inez  had  be- 
gun to  suspect  that  it  might  be,  at  best,  ofTi- 
ciousness,  ond  even  something  worse.  At 
any  rate,  it  had  grown  to  be  so  unpleasant 
that  Inez  had  about  resolved  not  to  go  out 
again  until  she  could  go  alone.  The  de- 
parture of  Saunders  seemed  to  leave  her  frei' 
to  do  tliin. 

Accordingly,  to  prevent  a  recurrence  of 
that  mistake  which  had  prevented  her  from 
going  out  the  laat  time  that  she  had  tried,  she 
sent  for  (Jounod  in  the  following  morning. 
He  came  in  a  short  time. 

"  I  wish  to  go  out  to-day,  .it  noon,"  saiil 
Inez;  "and  I  want  you  to  leave  tlio  key  of 
that  door  with  me,  or,  nt  least,  to  leave  it 
open,  BO  that  I  may  not  be  prevented  again 
by  the  stupidity  of  that  old  woman." 

"  Certaiidy,"  said  Gounod.  "At  what 
time  shall  I  have  the  cab  ready  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  want  the  cab,"  said  Inez.  "  I 
wish  to  go  alone." 

"Alone!"  exclaimed  Gonnod,  in  sur- 
prise. "  You  must,  of  course,  have  some 
attendant." 

"  No,"  said  Inez  ;  "  that  is  the  very  tiling 
that  I  do  not  wish  to  have.  1  wish  to  go 
tthue." 

"Alone!  Hut,  Heavens!  that  is  impos- 
sible.   Why,  you  would  be  utterly  lost.   Paris 


li.- 


il-i,  dounod 

altogctlier 
very  natii- 
br  the  du- 
z  foiilJ  not 
filling  cl^i^! 
iilois  Illlgllt 
ill',  or  clso, 
light  bo  ill 
iiinod.  Tho 
;e  had  al- 
it  seemed 

of  a  certain 
suited  from 
'  to  be  witli- 
vexed  at  tho 
loft  her,  niul 
ted  with  her 
luHpicions  in 
was  not  par- 
.0  fact  is,  the 
9  dining  tbo 
rely  irksonio. 
Inez  bad  bo- 
at  best,  olli- 
■  worse.  At 
io  unpleasant 
not  to  go  out 
IP.  Tho  de- 
leave bor  free 

rcurrencc  of 
ited  her  from 
had  tried,  slio 
ing  morning. 

:it  noon,"  saiil 
0  the  key  of 
it,  to  leave  it 
evented  again 
nan." 

"At  what 
?" 
aid  Inez.     "  I 

mod,  in  siir- 
0,   have   some 

llic  very  thing 
I  wish  to  go 

Ibat  is  inipos- 
rly  lost.   Paris 


LKillT   ON   Tin:   SITIATION'. 


189 


is  a  l.ibyrinth.  Yon  never  were  here  before. 
You  could  never  find  your  way  back." 

" Nonsense  1"  said  Inez.  "I  shall  take 
tho  address  of  tho  house,  and,  if  I  lose  my 
way,  I  can  come  back  in  a  cab." 

"But,  raadomoisellc,  you  do  not  know  the 
danger  here  in  Paris  to  a  young  girl,  a  stran- 
ger, unattended.  You  do  not  know,  or  you 
would  not  ask  this.  It  is  impossible.  Some 
one  must  accompany  you.  IFcre  no  young 
girl  ever  ventures  out  into  tho  streets  without 
Lor  chaperon." 

At  these  olijoctions  Inez  felt  irritated  and 
suspicious.  There  might  be  greater  restraint 
over  girls  in  France  than  in  England  ;  but  to 
her  the  idea  of  danger  in  the  streets  of  Paris, 
in  broad  day,  seemed  preposterous.  Yet  she 
did  not  know  exactly  what  to  say  in  answer 
to  Gounod's  strong  assertions.  She  felt  eager 
to  go,  and  throw  oif  this  restraint. 

"I  must  go;  I  insist  upon  it,"  she  said. 
"This  imprisonment  is  too  painful.  I  am 
always  watched.     I  cannot  breatiie  freely." 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  Gounod,  "  this  is 
not  England.  Do  not  talk  of  a  prison.  It  is 
a  home,  a  French  home  ;  you  arc  simply  liv- 
ing like  a  French  girl.  Ho  patient,  I  pray 
you.  The  Abb6  Magrath  will  soon  bo  hcie. 
It  is  painful  to  mo  to  be  obliged  to  refuse  the 
slightest  request  of  yours,  but  this  one  is 
clearly  unreasonable — and  what  can  I  do?" 

"  I  cannot  understand  this  at  all,"  said 
Inez.  "  This  danger  is  purely  imaginary.  I 
shall  die  if  I  am  shut  up  this  way." 

"  Mademoiselle,  you  need  not  bo  shut  up. 
You  may  go  out  with  your  attendants." 

"  My  jailors ! "  exclaimed  Inez,  indig- 
nantly. 

"Pardon,  mademoiselle,  I  must  asV  you 
not  to  use  such  language;  it  woun  Is  me,  and 
I  cannot  believe  that  you  have  that  inten- 
tion." 

"I  have  no  intention  of  giving  pain  to 
any  one,"  snid  Inez,  "  but  I  must  insist  on 
being  allowed  some  slight  degree  of  liberty." 

"  Madonioiselle,  I  dare  not,"  said  (iounod. 
"  What  answer  could  I  make  to  the  good  Al)b6 
Magralh  if  any  evil  sl.ould  happen  to  you  V  " 

"  The  Abbo  Magrath  is  nothing  to  me," 
said  Inez,  fretfully. 

"  Pardon,  mademoiselle.  Is  he  not  your 
guardian  ?  Even  now  he  is  engaged  in  your 
aflairs ;  ho  is  endeavoring  to  procure  for  you 
a  happy  homo,  and  I  dare  not  let  you  expose 
yourself  to  danger," 


This  was  Gounod's  position,  and  in  this  ha 
was  iiiiniovalile.  Inez  remonstrated,  but  her 
remonstrances  were  in  vain,  lie  od'ered  again 
to  find  attendants  for  her,  but  the  olVer  was 
of  course  rejoelcd ;  and,  when  he  at  length 
took  his  departure,  Inez  found  herself  tho 
lonely  occupant  of  this  suite  of  rooms,  which 
seemed  to  her  already  nothing  clso  than  a 
prison-house. 

In  her  deep  indignation  at  Gounod's  strict- 
ness, and  in  the  impatience  with  which  sho 
chafed  at  those  prison-walls,  she  imagined  n 
deeper  purpose  beneath  all  this  than  thoso 
commouplaoo  precautions  which  Gounod  pro- 
fessed ;  and,  in  tho  elTort  to  find  out  what 
this  purpose  might  be,  she  found  herself  look- 
ing beyond  Gounod  to  that  other  one  who 
seemed  to  her  to  be  tho  real  master  hero — 
the  one  whom  (iounod  quoted,  and  whom  ho 
called  tho  good  Abbu  Magrath. 

This  Abbo  Mau'rath  was  no  other  than 
Kevin  Magrath.  His  name  was  always  asso- 
ciated in  her  thoughts  with  thoso  mournful 
events  at  Villeneuvc,  of  which  his  letter  to 
Ilennigar  Wyverne  had  been  tho  cause.  That 
letter  had  ever  since  been  in  her  possession. 
Its  language  was  familiar  to  her  memory. 
Sho  know  every  word.  It  Roemed  singularly 
ill-omoncd,  and  gave  tho  writer  tho  character 
of  a  dark  intriguer,  to  her  mind — and  a  part- 
ner with  Ilennigar  Wyverne  in  his  crime, 
whatever  that  might  have  been.  This  was 
the  opinion  whicii  she  had  formed  of  Kevin 
Magrath  from  that  letter  of  his,  and  she  had 
never  ceased  to  wonder  iiow  it  had  happened 
that  h(T  dying  father  had  intrusted  her  to 
tho  care  of  such  a  man.  Either  her  father 
had  boon  tcrrilily  mistaken  in  his  friend,  op 
she  hcM'solf  must  have  formed  an  utterly  false 
opinion  with  regard  to  him. 

Thoughts  like  these  led  her  to  cx.imino 
those  letters  once  more,  so  as  to  reassure  her- 
self about  tho  nature  of  their  contents,  and  to 
SCO  if  there  would  now  appear  in  the  letter  of 
Kevin  Magrath  to  Ilennigar  Wyvernc  all  that 
dark  and  baleful  meaning  which  slio  had  scon 
in  it  at  Villeneuvc.  In  her  eagerness  to  as- 
certain tills,  Inez  brought  forth  this  letter  and 
tho  letters  of  licrnal  Mordaunt  from  her 
pocket-book,  where  she  kept  them  as  her 
most  precious  possessions,  and  liitio  clso  did 
that  pocket-book  contain.  Those  sho  laid  on 
the  table  before  her,  and  then  spread  thera  al. 
open. 

And  now,  scarcely  had  she  done  this,  whca 


|ll|:| 


TIJ: 


134 


AN'   OPEN'   Ql'KSTIOV. 


nn  extraordinary  thing  nttnit'teil  licr  nttt'ii- 
tion,  and  a  suspicion  dartPil  into  her  mind, 
80  wild,  so  terrible,  that  dho  started  bock  in 
horror,  and  for  n  moment  nTortod  her  cyoi>. 
Yet  the  thin5  was  there  vis^ible  enough,  and 
the  suspicion  was  natural  enough,  for,  us  her 
eyes  hurried  again  to  the  papers,  fhe  saw  it 
plainly.     It  was  thi.H : 

The  writing  of  these  letters  was  suffiuiently 
alilvo  for  them  all  to  hure  been  written  by  the 
same  man. 

One  of  them  was  from  Kevin  Magrath  to 
ITennigar  Wyreuie.  The  others  purported  to 
be  from  her  father,  Rernal  Monlaunt,  to  licr- 
ijelf,  Inez  Mordaunt,  his  child.  Yet  all  these 
might  hare  been  written  by  the  same  man. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  this  ? 

Was  it  possible  that  IJernal  Mordaunt  had 
been  too  weait  to  write,  and  had  employed 
Kevin  Magrath  as  liis  amanuensis  y  It  did 
not  seem  possible  to  Inez,  for  the  writing  of 
these  letters  evidently  purported  to  be  that 
of  Hernal  Mordaunt  himself,  and  no  other; 
and  the  eharacters  which  grew  more  and 
more  illegible  toward  the  elo?e  were  evidently 
designed  to  indicate  the  weakness  of  a  dying 
man. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  this? 

With  a  trembling  hand,  and  a  heart  that 
was  now  throbbing  wildly  with  terrible  ex- 
citement, she  placed  all  the  letters  side  by 
side,  confronted  by  the  frightful  fact  that  the 
liandwritlng  in  all  three  was  es.=entially  the 
same.  So  appalling  was  this  discovery  that 
Inez  sat  motionless  for  some  time,  incapable 
«)f  movement,  incapable  almost  of  thought, 
paralyzed  by  the  tumult  of  feeling  which  now 
agitated  her  heart.  At  length  she  rose  to  her 
feet,  and,  with  an  unsteady  step,  and  a  face 
more  ghastly  than  it  had  been  ever  since  the 
ilrst  awful  moment  of  her  arrival  here,  she 
tottered  toward  the  window,  and,  sinking 
down  upon  a  scat  there,  she  looked  vacantly 
and  dreamily  out.  Only  one  thought  was  in 
lier  mind,  a  question  which  she  knew  not  how 
to  answer.  What  was  the  meaning  of  all 
this? 

Thus  far  Inez  had  allowed  herself  to  be 
borne  onward  by  circumstances,  and  had  ac- 
cepted in  good  faith  what  others  had  told  her, 
whether  by  letter  or  by  word  of  mouth.  Rut 
this  last  discovery  had  destroyed  her  blind 
faith.  It  had  roused  the  worst  suspicions. 
It  had  thrown  her  back  upon  her  own  reason, 
even  as  the  tragedy  at  Villcncuvo  had  thrown 


her ;  and  thus,  as  the  lirst  shock  passed,  and 
she  gained  more  control  over  herself,  she  be- 
gan to  collect  her  thoughts,  and  to  review  her 
whole  position. 

Olio  of  two  thtng.i  at  length  seemed  <'vi- 
deiit  to  her : 

First,  the  writing  of  Kevin  Magrath  and 
that  of  Bernal  Mordaunt  may  possibly  havo 
been  very  much  alike. 

Secondly,  Kevin  Magrath  may  have  forged 
these  letters. 

These  were  the  two  alternatives  before 
her,  unless  imlee  I  she  could  suppose  that 
Hernal  Mordaunt  had  himself  written  that  firrit 
letter  to  Ileunigar  Wyvcrne  in  Kevin  Ma- 
grath's  name — a  thing  which,  from  the  na- 
ture  of  the  ease,  was  of  course  impossible. 

First,  then,  was  it  at  all  likely  that  Bernal 
Mordannt'.s  handwriting  was  like  Kevin  Ma- 
grath'.s?  It  was  certainly  possible.  How 
could  she  know?  Could  she  find  out  what 
Bernal  Mordaunt's  handwriting  was  reoUy 
like?  Scarce  had  she  asked  herself  this  ques- 
tion when  the  answer  came.  She  coidd.  In 
an  instant  she  recollected  that  little  note  ac- 
companying the  portraits  addressed  to  Ilenni- 
gar  Wyverno  years  before.  She  had  it  yet. 
The  casket  was  in  her  tnmR.  She  hurried  to 
the  trunk  and  opened  it.  With  a  trembling 
hand  she  took  out  the  note,  and  laid  it  on  the 
table  beside  the  other  papers. 

In  that  moment  the  answer  was  given. 

The  letter  of  Bernal  Mordaunt  to  Ilenni- 
gar  Wyvernc  was  in  writing  which  had  noth- 
ing in  commnii  with  that  of  the  letters  pur- 
porting to  havo  been  written  by  him  to  her- 
self. Years  of  course  might  make  a  differ- 
ence, but  the  difference  here  was  not  that 
which  is  produced  by  time.  The  ditl'ereiiee 
lay  in  the  essential  style  of  writing.  Bernal 
Mordaunt's  was  roimd,  Kevin  Magrath's  sharp 
and  angular.  The  one  who  had  written  these 
letters  in  Bernal  Mordaunt's  name  seeme<l  to 
Inez  to  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  she 
knew  nothing  of  Bernal  Mordainit's  handwrit- 
ing, and  had  therefore  taken  no  pains  to  imi- 
tate it  or  to  disguise  his  own.  And  this  one 
was  proved  to  be  Kevin  Magrath's  by  his  own 
letter. 

How  he  had  managed  to  send  these  letters 
at  such  a  time  Inez  could  not  imagine.  lie 
must  have  had  some  secret  knowledge  of  her 
movements,  and  of  the  state  of  her  mind.  Ho 
must  have  known  that  she  would  be  preparcil 
to  receive  Bernal  Mordaunt's  claim  to  bo  her 


LI(    'T  ON   THE  SITUATION'. 


sued,  and 
f,  sliD  bo- 
cview  hiT 

umt'd  rvi- 


father.  1  iin  whom  could  he  lur  btaincd 
this  knowlcrlgo  of  her  tliou;;Iits  nn  ii'elinf;s» 
Coiihl  Simndcrs  have  been  his  spy  and  agent? 
She  rccilhid  the  noise  wliicli  Imd  startled  her 
on  the  night  when  slic  searched  tlio  cahinct, 
and  wondered  now  whctlier  she  had  been 
watched  tlien,  and  if  tiie  watclior  could  have 
been  Saunders.  It  seemed  probable.  No 
one  wn.J  so  likely  as  her  own  maid  to  give  to 
Kevin  Magr.ith  such  infurmatioti. 

It  seemed  to  Inez  now  tliat  these  letters 
in  riernal  Morduunt's  hanil  were  forged.  And 
what  followed  ?  A  whole  world  of  results — 
results  so  important  that  her  brain  reeled 
under  tlic  complication  of  thoughts  that 
arose.  If  these  letters  were  forged,  then  lier- 
nal  Mordaunt  could  not  have  sent  for  her. 
He  might  never  have  been  in  Pari.^.  He 
might  even  now  be  searching  for  her  in  Eng- 
land. More  ;  she  might  not  be  his  daughter 
after  all.  How  could  she  now  believe  any 
thing?  How  coidd  she  tell  who  she  was? 
Thus  there  arose  in  her  mind  a  doubt  as  to 
herself  and  her  personal  identity,  out  of 
which  grew  fresh  perplexity.  But  this  soon 
passcil.  Deep  down  in  her  heart  there  was 
an  in5<finct,  uiidefinablo  yet  strong,  which 
forced  her  to  believe  that  she  was  Inez  Mor- 
daunt, the  daughter  of  IJcrnal  Mordaunt. 
Deep  down  in  her  heart  tln-re  was  a  ycannng 
love  whioh  had  quickencJ  into  active  life  at  | 
the  first  sight  of  those  portraits  ;  strange  I 
feelings  and  memories  had  been  awakened  by  ' 
the  sight  of  those  faces;  and  her  heart' 
claimed  them  as  mother  and  sifter.  j 

The  motive  that  might  have  animated  I 
Kevin  Magrath  toward  weaving  around  her 
this  dark  plot  was  an  impenetrable  mystery 
to  her  ;  but  that  he  had  woven  a  plot  was  now  j 
l)ut  too  painfully  evident.  His  aim  seeiried 
evidently  to  have  been  to  entrap  her  into  his 
own  power  through  her  own  consent  and  co- 
operation ;  and,  to  accomplish  this,  he  had 
been  working  most  subtly  and  most  assid- 
uously. She  recalled  the  language  of  his  let- 
ter to  Ilennigar  Wyverne,  with  reference  to 
herself,  that  she  (Iner)inust  be  removed  from 
Hernal  Mordaunt's  way.  She  now  saw  that 
the  death  of  Wyverne  had  not  chnngod  Kevin 
Mngrath's  views,  but  had  only  caused  him  to 
take  the  matter  into  his  own  hamls.  She 
saw,  too,  that  a  plot  of  this  kind,  which  had 
been  so  successful,  and  had  only  been  dis- 
covered by  an  accident,  conld  not  have  been 
carried  out  at  nil  without  the  cniiperntion  of 


some  of  the  inmatt's  of  the  house — that  one 
being,  as  bIh;  had  already  suspected,  her  maid 
Sauiuiers. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  she  saw  that  the 
death  of  her  father  in  this  house  must  be  aa 
false  as  the  dyinfr  appeal  to  her.  She  con-- 
sidercd  the  whol  hing  a  deception.  Allkirs 
had  been  so  manage<l  that  she  had  not  caught 
one  glimpse  of  her  father  either  alive  or  dead. 
He  had  never  been  here!  He  was  probably 
alive  and  searching  for  her,  and  she  had  fallen 
into  ho  trap  set  for  her.  And  now,  since  she 
wag  here  in  this  trap,  many  little  circum- 
stances  explained  them.sclvcs  —  the  stealthy 
journey  from  the  railway-station,  the  strange 
behavior  of  the  man  (iounod,  whom  she  had 
detected  aa  not  being  really  a  priest,  but  only 
some  common  man  in  a  priest's  dress ;  the 
cautious  drives  out  in  a  close  cab  ;  the  locked 
iloors  ;  tlio  constant  w,i tell — in  all  this  also 
the  faithful  Saunders  was  inipli'utcd,  for  she, 
under  the  mask  ol  levot.ion,  had  contrived  to 
bo  with  her  always.  And  now  here  she  was, 
in  this  deserted  building,  alone,  a  prisoner, 
under  lock  and  key,  with  the;  man  Gounod 
and  tlie  old  woman  as  her  jailers. 

What  could  she  do  ?  Could  she  hope  ever 
to  escape  ? 

Dark,  indeed,  the  prospect  seemed ;  nor 
could  she,  with  all  h(<rmo9t  anxious  tho\ighta, 
discern  any  way  by  which  escape  miirht  bo 
cfTectcd.  This  she  would  have  to  leave  ttr 
circumstances  in  the  future.  Perhaps  she 
might  be  removed  from  this  to  some  other 
place  where  an  opportunity  might  arise.  Sho 
could  not  hope  for  more  than  this,  and  she 
could  only  make  up  her  mind  to  be  as  cau- 
tious as  possible,  so  as  to  avoiil  suspicion, 
and  throw  her  enemies  off  their  guard. 

Night  came,  but  it  was  a  8lcei)lcss  one  to 
Inez.  These  new  circuinstanccs  kept  her  in  a 
state  of  constant  excitement.  Yet,  though 
the  discovery  which  she  had  made  was  in  one 
sense  so  terrible,  it  was  not  without  its  alle- 
viations. Out  of  this  discovery  followed  an 
assurance  to  her,  or  at  least  a  hope,  that  her 
father  might  yet  be  alive,  that  ho  might  bo 
even  now  seeking  for  her,  and  might  at  Inst; 
find  her.  nossio  would  si'e  him ;  sho  would 
tell  him  all  thit  sho  knew  about  this  journey 
to  Paris.  Her  father  would  come  here ;  he 
woidd  employ  the  aid  of  the  police ;  he  would 
at  last  rescue  her.  Thus  she  tried  to  hope, 
"nd  this  hope  was  the  brightest  thing  thai 
had  occurrc'l  to  her  since  her  arrival  here. 


III 


■'ii 


lac 


AN   Ol'KN    (HKSTION. 


11 


ClIArTEll  XXXIII. 


A      K  L  1  (i  II  T     V  O  11 


,  1 1  e . 


Inez  had  now  but  one  tlioiiglit,  niiil  tliiit 
wi\8  escape.  Ilcr  ^iittlation  was  one  wliich,  in 
spite  of  its  dilTicultica,  did  not  prevent  hope 
nltoRctlier.  Slie  was  a  prisoner,  it  is  true, 
Imt  tlie  departure  of  .'^aunders  deprived  hor 
<)f  wliat  slio  now  felt  to  be  the  most  danger- 
ous of  all  tlic  Rpics  around  licr.  (iounod  and 
the  old  woman  remained,  but  neither  of  these 
(■ecnicd  capable  of  kcepin;;  up  any  very  cll'cc- 
tive  or  very  vigilant  system  of  spying.  Kevin 
Magrath  was  not  here,  and  he  bad  jirobably 
been  so  confident  in  the  security  of  this  pris- 
on that  ho  had  sent  Saunders  away,  or  taken 
her  away  elsewhere. 

All  the  thoughts  of  Inez  for  the  next  few 
flays  were  directed  toward  her  surroundings, 
in  the  endeavor  to  discover  Borac  way  by 
which  she  might  carry  into  execution  her 
jdan  of  escape.  This  endeavor,  however,  was 
>u)t  very  successful.  The  house  was  unin- 
habited except  by  herself  and  her  jailers, 
llor  apartments  were  on  one  side;  the  win- 
dows of  her  rooms  opened  upon  the  gallery, 
and  not  upon  any  street.  This  gallery  was 
also  shut  ofT  from  the  rest  of  the  house  ;  and 
the  door  by  which  cscapd  could  be  made  from 
it  was  kept  locked  always.  Twice  a  dry  the 
old  woman  unlocked  it  and  made  her  appcar- 
tincc:  once  with  breakfast,  and  also  to  make 
the  beds  and  cle.ir  up  the  rooms  ;  and  a 
second  time  with  dinner.  Sometimes  Gounod 
would  look  in  during  the  day.  His  calls 
were,  however,  irregular,  and  Inez  never  took 
any  notice  of  him. 

Now,  the  policy  of  Inez  was  very  simple, 
and  at  once  tlie  best  and  the  easiest  for  her 
under  the  circumstances.  She  appeared  quite 
content.  She  was  wrapped  up  in  herself. 
She  never  spoke  one  word,  good  or  bad,  to 
the  old  woman  or  Gounod.  She  ate  her 
meals,  slept  at  night,  ond,  during  the  day,  sat 
patiently  in  her  room.  Neither  Gounod  nor 
the  old  woman  ever  saw  any  sign  of  impa- 
tience in  her.  To  neither  of  them  did  she 
ever  liint  that  she  was  discontented  or  un- 
happy. She  never  asked  to  go  out,  or  to 
drive  out.  As  far  as  they  could  judge  by 
outward  appearances,  she  was  content.  They 
liad  every  reason  'o  believe  that  she  had  ac- 
quiesced in  the  plan  of  Kevin  Magrath,  and 
was  now  placidly  waiting  for  his  return  so  as 


to  accoiii|iany  him  to  Home.  C!rudually  tliis 
conviction  became  Htrcnulhcnod  in  the  minds 
of  her  jailers.  The  old  woman,  who  at  first 
used  to  look  at  her  anxiously  every  time  she 
came  in,  grew  at  length  to  accept  her  calm 
and  i)eaceful  face  as  a  matter  of  course.  Gou- 
nod became  less  vigilant,  and  bis  visits  l)e- 
camc  more  and  more  infrcfi'iciit.  Many  little 
things,  inilced,  gliowc<l  a  nlaxation  of  the 
.«trictnc93  of  their  watch. 

Meanwhile,  though  Inez  thus  succccilcd 
in  maintaining  an  outward  calm  po  perfectly 
as  to  imi)oso  u]  on  her  watchful  jailers,  she 
herself  was  by  ni>  rneans  free  from  agitation 
and  fuinulluous  U'clings.  It  was  one  long 
state  of  suspense,  and  all  the  harassing  con- 
ditions of  suspense  were  experienced  by  Iiit 
to  the  uttermost.  Yet,  Inez  came  to  this  task 
not  without  preparation.  She  had  already 
endured  much  ;  already  had  she  learned  to 
subduo  her  emotions,  and  exercise  self-coii- 
trol.  This  new  task  was,  therefore,  tho 
easier  to  lier  from  the  preparation  which  (^lie 
had  undergone.  I'nder  cover,  then,  of  pro- 
found calm  and  placid  content,  tdie  carried  an 
incessant  watchlulness,  an  eager,  sleepless 
outlook,  a  vigilant  attention  to  all  that  went 
on  around  her.  Not  a  change  took  place  in 
the  action  or  demeanor  of  licr  jailers  whiih 
sho  failed  to  notice ;  and  these  changes 
seemed  to  promise  something. 

Already  sho  had  placed  all  her  hope  in 
the  door  at  the  end  of  the  gallery.  Through 
that  oidy  could  she  hope  to  escape.  Her 
gallery  was  too  high  above  the  court-yard  for 
her  to  let  herself  down.  There  were  no  oth- 
er ways  by  which  she  could  leave  this  story 
on  which  she  was,  cither  to  go  up  or  down. 
Since,  then,  this  door  was  the  only  pathway 
to  liberty,  it  became  the  centre  of  all  her 
thoughts  and  watchfulness. 

It  was  with  reference  to  this,  then,  that 
certain  things  were  noticed  by  her. 

The  old  woman  came,  as  has  been  said, 
regularly  twice  a  day.  At  first  she  was  most 
painfully  careful  and  guarded  in  all  her  ac- 
tions. Upon  passing  through  the  gallery- 
door,  she  always  spent  obout  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  in  locking  it,  putting  the  key  in  her 
pocket,  and  in  trying  the  lock  over  and  over, 
to  see  whether  it  was  really  locked  or  not. 
Then  she  would  come  to  the  parlor,  and  look 
in  with  painful  and  eager  inquiry. 

But  tho  cool  and  patient  indiflerenco  of 
Inez  aflccted  the  old  woman  in  spite  of  her* 


k. 


TiiK  I'MciiT  von  Liri:. 


137 


Fcir.  (ii'oJuully,  slic  spent  Icsit  and  loss  time 
at  tlic  door.  Thin  Inez  noticed  as  clio  Kiit  in 
the  parlor.  Tills  parlor  was  near  the  door, 
and  tlirou;^li  the  win 'ow,  wliioh  opened  out 
into  tlio  gallery,  she  could  see  it  very  plainly. 
Tho  old  woman  would  bring  in  lircakfast,  and 
tiien,  while  Inez  was  catin;;,  rIio  would  go  to 
her  bedroom,  at  the  other  end  ol'  the  gallery, 
to  attend  to  her  duties  there. 

Now,  tho  decreasing  vi^^ilaneo  of  the  old 
woman  became  a  matter  of  immcnso  impor- 
tance to  Inez,  especially  with  regard  to  tho 
gallery-door.  Upon  this  all  her  attention  be- 
came exclusively  centred.  Every  day  made 
fiomo  trilling  change  which  was  in  her  favor. 
Tho  old  woman  at  length  turned  the  key  in 
the  lock  quite  carelessly,  and  once  even  left 
it  in  the  lock  and  walked  into  the  [larhir,  leav- 
ing it  there.  Hoinething,  however,  put  her  in 
uiind  of  it,  and  bIic  returned  and  took  it  out. 

A  few  days  pa'jsod,  and  tho  sarao  thing 
occurred  again.  This  was  the  thing  for 
which  Inez  had  been  waiting.  This  wad  the 
thing  for  which  .she  hud  been  preparing.  The 
old  woman  spread  the  breakfast,  and  never 
remembered  about  the  key,  and  then,  as 
usual,  turned  toward  tho  bedroom.  Aa  she 
left  the  parlor,  Inez  started  up,  and,  at  the 
very  moment  when  t^hc  disappeared  ''^"ough 
her  bedroom-door,  she  stole  with  a  ^  ift  yet 
stealthy  step  to  the  gallery-door.  In  on  in- 
stant she  \inlocked  it,  snatched  out  tho  key, 
transferred  it  to  the  other  side,  and  locked  it 
there. 

Thus  the  old  woman  herself  was  impris- 
oned. 

But  for  Inez  there  was  no  time  to  lose. 
The  old  woman  might  discover  what  had  hap- 
pened at  any  moment;  and,  if  (lounod  was  in 
tho  house,  he  would  hear  her  cries.  Inez, 
therefore,  hurried  along  down  a  flight  of 
bteps  that  was  before  her  swiftly,  yet  cau- 
liously,  and  thus  she  reached  the  story  below. 
N'ow  there  was  a  narrow  corridor  that  ran 
for  some  distance,  and  at  the  end  of  this  a 
(light  of  steps.  Down  this  she  also  went  in 
the  same  way.  Reaching  tho  bottom,  she 
found  herself  on  the  ground-floor,  insido  a 
liall  that  ran  across  tho  building.  At  tho 
bottom  of  this  stairway  there  was  a  door  that 
opened  into  tho  court-yard,  and  this  lower 
hall  ran  back  from  this  door  to  tho  front  of 
the  house,  where  there  was  another  door. 

Inez  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  close 
by  this  back-i  jor,  and  peeped  cautiously  forth 


at  the  front-door.  In  un  instant  iho  drew 
b.uk.  It  Was  the  iohi'h r</cnV.  There  was  a 
man  there.  It  w.is  (iDunod.  Tho  front-door 
was  open,  but  (iounod  sat  there,  smoking, 
reailing  a  morning  paper,  barring  her  way  to 
liberty. 

Tor  a  niotnent  nlie  stood  still,  ovcrconio 
by  dc^|lai^,  but  in  another  moment  it  jiassed. 
Then,  with  tho  same  swift  rcKoluti«>n  and 
presence  of  mind  which  hail  marked  all  her 
acts  thus  far,  fiho  stepped  noLselcs.sly  out 
through  tho  door  into  the  court-yard.  Tho 
stairway  concealed  her  from  (lounoil,  and  bIio 
made  no  noise  to  bciray  her  movement. 

This  back-door  was  double ;  there  was  an 
inner  and  an  outer  one.  The  outer  one  was 
of  massive  construction  ;  the  inner  one  was 
ligiiter,  and  had  windows  in  the  sides. 

Ono  look  around  tho  courtyard  showed 
that  tliero  was  no  avenue  of  escape  there. 
Tho  main  portal  was  closed  and  locked. 
There  was  only  ono  hope,  and  that  was 
through  tho  concinyeric.  Perhaps  (iounod 
would  move.  Tcrhaps  ho  would  go  up-stairs, 
or  out  into  tho  street,  or  into  the  court-yard ; 
perhaps  ho  might  full  asleep ;  perhaps,  if  all 
else  failed,  she  might  make  a  mad  rush  for 
liberty. 

One  of  these  things  might  happen.  It 
was  necessary  for  her  to  hold  herself  in 
readinesit.  The  space  between  tho  two  doors 
seemed  adapted  lor  a  hiding-place.  Through 
tlio  glass  of  the  inner  door  she  could  watch 
the  movements  of  Gounod;  while  tho  mas- 
sive outer  door,  as  it  swung  back,  would  shut 
her  in  and  save  her  from  detection.  Tho 
moment  that  this  thought  suggested  itself 
she  acted  upon  it.  Quietly  pulling  back  tho 
door,  she  slipped  into  the  place,  and  then 
drew  the  door  so  as  to  shut  herself  in.  Tho 
glass  was  dusty,  but,  by  breathing  upon  it 
and  rubbing  it  gently,  ihe  was  able  to  watch 
tho  couciergerie,  and  see  Gounod  with  suQl- 
cient  distinction. 

There  she  waited — watchful,  niOtionles.s, 
scarce  daring  to  breathe,  looking  with  all  her 
eyes,  and  listening  -rith  all  her  cars.  Rlie 
was  straining  her  eyes  to  see  if  Gounod  would 
move,  or  if  any  favorable  change  would  take 
place  in  liis  position.  But  Gounod  made  no 
change  for  the  better.  lie  smoked  on,  and 
shifted  and  changed  his  position,  and  leaned 
at  times  back  in  his  chair,  and  yawned,  and 
read  his  paper,  and  smoked  again,  and  so  on, 
till  Inez  thought  that  hours  must  have  passed, 


! 


f  ■ 

I 

t  : 


138 


AX  OPEN   yUESTK).\. 


and  wondered  irliut  sort  of  a  papor  this  could 
be  wliich  could  thus  tako  eo  long  a  time  to 
read. 

Giie  had  been  listening'  all  this  time — lis- 
tenin),  to  hcai'  wlicther  tlio  old  woman  had 
discovered  her  flif^lit.  Tldd  discovery  might 
take  place  at  any  moment.  A  long  time  had 
pnftged,  nnd  it  seemed  fur  longer  thin  it  really 
was  ;  and,  as  it  pn^-cl,  the  atcnlion  of  Inez 
only  grew  the  more  eager, 

Suddenly  it  came. 

She  heard  it. 

The  cry ! 

Hor  flight  was  dibcovered.  The  old  wom- 
an had  found  it  out. 

There  was  a  wild,  shrill,  piercing  yell  from 
the  upper  part  of  the  houst — a  yell  fo  clear 
end  pcnetr.'-.dug  that  Inez  actually  felt  it  thrill 
through  nil  her  frame,  and  (ioiinod  pprnng  to 
his  feet,  .villi"  the  p.ipcr  fell  from  liia  hands 
and  tlie  pipe  i'.-om  Iim  moulli,  !Ie  Htood  lis- 
tening. 

Tlioro  came  another  yell — a  yell  of  wild 
lament,  iiilcrfi'in  '»d  with  word.",  which,  how- 
over,  were  quite  uidntelligihlo.  doiinod  threw 
n  <,iiicl.  lo:.  s  around  him,  r<nd  then  darted 
(VoiM  the  enncierf/nie,  and  ran  linRtlly  toward 
fli-  back-door.  He  advanced  straight  'owanl 
the  hidi'ig-placo  wlu'i-o  Inez  was  standing,  and 
then,  r<'nching  the  foot  ot  t'lO  slai;-s,  stood  Wa. 
toning  once  more.  At  that  moment  ho  was 
not  more  than  twelve  inches  from  Inez. 

Horror  piiriilyzcd  her.  She  could  not  even 
breathe.  It  was  terrible,  beyond  expression, 
to  be  so  near  lo  escape,  and  yet  to  havi?  so 
near  her  the  relentless  jailer.  Hut  her  sus- 
pense did  not  la.-it  long,  (ioiinod  waited,  nnd 
then  another  yell,  more  inipaliont,  more  pro- 
longed,  nnd  more  eager,  came  down  to  his 
ears.  U|)on  this  he  started,  and,  npritiging 
fr^rward,  ni)>hcd  up  the  stairs,  taking  thrco 
stepn  at  a  time. 

Now  was  the  moment !  Heforo  Oonnnd 
had  gained  the  top  of  that  stairway,  Inez  had 
slipped  out  from  her  hiding-place ;  and,  as  he 
was  nmning  along  the  upper  gallery,  she  waa 
hurrying  towanl  the  roufifrprrie.  Here  a 
Hii'iilen  impulse  seized  her  to  take  some  ^ind 
of  A  disguise,  so  as  to  prevent  observation. 
In  her  prvsent  dross  hlio  '•ould  look  straiigtf 
in  the  streets,  without  Jacket  or  bonnet.  One 
quick  look  around  the  cowWrri/mc  was  enouuli. 
There  was  an  old  water-proof  cloak  there  niid 
a  hat,  ovidoiitly  the  property  .!  the  old  wom- 
an.    IncB  fult  some  reluct  nrr  about  using 


these  things,  especially  the  hat,  'mt  there 
was  no  help  for  it.  She  cjuld  not  stop  to 
reason.  She  seizc-l  the  Moak,  flung  it  over 
her,  thrust  tlir.  hat  on  her  head,  and  then 
sprang  out  through  the  open  door  into  tb? 
street. 

Away  and  away  1  She  was  afraid  to  run, 
but  she  walked  as  rapidly  as  possible.  At 
length  iliis  street  ran  ii.to  anotV.or  which  raa 
more  crv>wded.  Hero  ."lie  mingled  with  i'.;o 
throng  of  people  and  soon  lost  herself.  Out 
it  wu.s  not  easy  for  her  to  feel  safe.  So  terri- 
ble  was  her  sense  of  pursuit  nnd  kcr  dread 
of  capture  that  siie  walked  on  h'.kI  on,  turning 
into  one  street  alter  another,  rounding  coi- 
ners, walking  up  lanes,  ami  losing  hetself 
inextricably.  Tho  streetH,  as  she  went,  grew 
more  and  more  populous,  the  lioiyes  grew 
handsomer,  the  public  buildings  more  stately. 
At  length  she  caino  to  a  river,  over  which 
there  were  thrown  numerous  nmgiiiOcv-*nt 
bridges, -and  beyond  there  arose  the  lordly 
ouiIIqc  of  splendid  pal.ices  and  noblu  monu- 
ments. In  these  she  beheld,  at  letigth  rc- 
vciiLmI,  all  tho  glories  of  I'nris  ;  and,  in  spite 
of  the  terrors  of  pursuit  and  the  agitation  of 
her  flight,  she  could  not  help  accepting  this 
as  a  fresh  proof  of  the  vigilance  of  her  jailer* 
and  tho  treachery  of  Saunders,  who  had  never 
driven  her  near  tliLs  part  of  Paris,  but  had 
tliligenily  kcin  iier  in  streets  whore  she  could 
see  noth'.ig  of  the  splendor  of  the  great  city. 

Hi'.i  there  wart  no  ti'nc  now  either  to  recall 
pa. ;  trenjhery  or  to  admire  the  splendors  of 
the  surrounding  scene.  Escape  was  her  only 
thought — security  in  some  place  of  refuge, 
where  s'.o  might  collect  b-ir  thoughts  nnd 
eorisidcr  her  future.  On,  then,  she  went,  and 
still  or.  She  crossed  a  bridge  that  was  neiir- 
est,  and  then  once  more  plunged  into  a  crowd 
of  streets. 

At  length,  her  att(;ntion  was  arrested  by  it 
notice  on  the  window  of  a  house.  It  looked 
like  a  place  suited  to  one  of  moderate  means. 
It  was  a  notice  to  lodgers.  She  entered  here, 
and  made  inquiries.  !-'<o  was  pleased  with 
the  look  of  iIk!  place,  and  also  with  the  ap- 
pearance, the  tone,  and  tho  manner  of  tlio 
lan'll.idy.     Here,  tlien,  t'lie  took  lodgings. 

Her  first  thoughts  now  were  abo>it  regain- 
ing her  friends.  She  had  no  money,  and 
therefore  eonl'l  not  travel.  She  could  think 
of  iiiilv  one  thing  to  do,  and  that  was  to  writa 
*..-  ll.-^ssie.  ncBi<io  would  feel  for  her,  and 
either   «.  'd  her  money  or  Uy  to  her  relief. 


i.  I 


A   rilKSll   1NVK.ST1GAT10.V. 


i;{9- 


')ut  there 
ut  Rtop  to 
ip;  it  over 
nnd  thrn 
r  into  tb? 

id  to  run, 
<Bil)le.     At 
wliich   tna 
d  with  I'.'.e 
rstlf.     But 
So  tcrri- 
Ucr  dread 
on,  tuniinR 
inding  cor- 
ii";  lieisclf 
went,  grew 
juics    pri'W 
lOre  statoly. 
over  wliicli 
ninpiific'ont 
•  I  he  lordly 
olilu  nionu- 
.  KTigth  re- 
nd, in  ppito 
(jritation  of 
[•('pting  this 
M  licr  jailers 
10  Imd  never 
Tin,  but  hnd 
re  she  could 
c  Rveut  city, 
her  to  recall 
pli'ndors  of 
was  her  on!y 
!   of   refuge, 
loughtH  and 
10  vent,  nnd 
at  was  ncRr- 
into  a  crowd 

iTPSted  by  it 
It  looked 
L-mte  moans. 
>nterod  here, 
)lensed  with 
'illi  the  np- 
nner  of  llio 
lodgings, 
iboiit  regain- 
money,  nnd 
rould  thinic 
wa«  to  write 
or  licr,  nnd 
i>  her  relief. 


Dosic  al.10  might  know  about  her  fithcr  by  I 
this  time,  nnd  would  send  him.  So  afraid, 
liowc'cr,  was  Iner  of  letting  her  secret  be 
kncwn  Ihnt  she  did  not  give  Bessie  the  ad- 
drcHS  of  her  lodgings,  but  simply  told  her  to 
address  the  letter  posle  rfstante  at  Paris.  In 
her  letter  she  informed  Bessie  that  she  had 
come  to  Paris  owing  to  false  inforniati  n 
wliich  she  had  rcecived,  that  she  had  b.  'i. 
in  great  distress ;  and,  after  a  brief  outiir.c 
of  her  siitforings,  implored  her  to  send  her  nt 
once  as  much  money  us  would  be  siidicient  to 
take  her  to  Knglai  I. 

Having  written  this,  she  waited  impatiently 
for  nn  answer.  Afraid  to  go  to  tlio  pojt-ofHc^ 
horself,  for  fear  of  being  discoverei  and  re- 
cvptured  by  some  ngent  of  Magrnth's,  Inez 
nj  jvnled  to  the  landlady,  who  sent  her  dau^di- 
ter  there.     Tliere  was  no  niiswer. 

Several  days  passed. 

Every  day  some  one  went  there,  cither 
the  landlady  or  the  landlady's  daughter,  pr 
some  'jtlier  member  of  the  family.  All  wer;' 
full  of  sympathy  for  the  benutifid  Knglish 
girl  who  war  so  lonely  nnd  80  snd.  But  the 
days  passed,  iiuu  siill  no  answer  came. 

Then  Iiie?:  wrote  ngnin.  Her  letter  was 
more  urgent  nnd  mnie  lull  of  entreaty  tl.an 
before.  She  drev/  n  picture  of  her  past  suf- 
ferings nnd  nfnsent  desolation  that  would 
have  ni'i'ed  t!.  •  most  callous  heart,  and  im- 
jdored  'Jessie  n'.i  to  del.iy  in  sending  her  ns- 
Kisf,..iee 

.'.'■(er  this  she  again  waited  in  a  fever  of 
iinpalicnce.  Day  after  day  passed,  and  week 
after  week.  No  answer  came.  .\t  length,  so 
great  was  the  nnsiety  of  Inez  that  it  sur- 
mounted even  the  haunting  dread  of  pursuit 
and  recapture;  and,  fearing  that  the  landlady 
might  have  made  a  mistoko  of  some  sort,  she 
venture  1  forth  to  the  post-ofllco  herself.  But 
she  met  with  no  better  "ueeess. 

llien>  was  no  letter  at  nil  for  anv  fueh 
persrin  as  Inez  Mordaunt.  There  was  no  let- 
ter for  any  such  person  as  Ino«  Wyverne — 
nor  for  Miss  Mordaunt,  nor  for  Atiss  Wyverne. 
Inez  named  herself  in  every  possible  way; 
btit  the  end  of  it  nil  wns,  flint  no  answer  ct 
nil  had  been  sent  to  cither  of  her  letters, 

Upon  this  she  lost  nil  hope,  and  ♦ho  only 
conclusion  that  she  could  come  to  wns,  that 
Bessie  hciself  had  p'  isps  been  foullv  dealt 
with  by  Kevin  Magrath.  This  fear  seemed 
BO  jiisliMahle  that  it  preyed  more  niul  nuire 
upon  her  ndnd,  nnd  finally  became  n  convie. 


tion.  The  picture  which  her  ima^in.ition 
formed  of  the  ehildish  nnd  light-hearted  Bes- 
sie, drawn  helplessly  into  the  power  of  tho 
unscrupulous  Magrath,  w;'9  too  terrible  to  be 
endiired.  The  sulFerings  through  wliioh  she 
had  passed  since  her  llight  reached  a  climax. 
This  last  disappointment  brol-e  down  all  her 
fortitude.  .'Strength  ami  hope  alike  gave  way, 
and  a  severe  attack  of  illness  followed,  in 
which  :ho  once  more  went  dowa  to  the  ex- 
treme verge  cif  life.  But  the  kind  care  of  the 
landlady  watched  over  her,  nnd  those  good 
[icopli!  showi'd  waiT.i  and  loving  hearts.  Their 
care  saved  her,  aud  Inez  was  once  more  broufhl 
back  to  life. 

As  she  found  horself  convalescent,  she  be- 
came every  day  more  and  more  aware  of  llie 
necessity  that  there  was  to  get  money  in  some 
wny.  Iler  debt  to  the  landlady  was  heavy 
already;  nnd,  more  than  this,  she  was  eager 
to  return  to  England. 

Uow  could  she  do  this  ? 

There  was  only  one  way  possible. 

That  piild  coss  which  she  had  found  nt 
Villencuvc  sl">  had  ever  siiiee  worn  around 
her  neck,  and  hnd  it  still.  ThiTe  was  no  other 
wny  to  save  herself  than  by  the  sacrifice  of 
this.  It  was  a  bitter  thing,  but  it  had  to  bo 
done.  It  was  necessary  to  pawn  it,  and  thus 
get  thnt  money  which  alone  could  save  het 
now. 

Wie  had,  therefore,  nerved  herself  up  to 
this.  She  had  set  forth  in  search  of  n  pawn- 
broker or  Sv/nicthii.g  equivalent,  nnd  was  on 
this  en  and  at  the  time  she  met  Kane  Ilell- 
muth.  Full  of  terror,  fearing  pursuit  nnd 
recapture,  every  one  seenu'd  a  possible  ene- 
my;  nnd  t',o  earnest  stnre  of  Kane  Hellmuth 
•.'•'•'"  .'■..itfieicnt  to  rouse  all  her  fears.  Ho 
seemed  some  agent  of  her  enemy,  nnd,  when 
she  know  that  she  wns  l)e'ng  pursued  by  him, 
she  lost  all  hope.  As  a  last  resource,  she 
sought  to  take  a  cab,  but  at  thnt  instant  her 
strength  gave  way. 


ciuriKR  X.XXIV. 

.V     FUF.  sir     INVKSTIOATIOM. 

TiiK  story  of  Ines  hnd  been  communicated 
to  K:ino  Hellmuth  in  the  course  of  several 
inferv  ews.  The  confiilenco  which  thus  began 
between  them,  smm  became  ol"  the  most  famil- 
iar If'nd.     From  tho  first,  the  sore  necessities 


i\-'f 


\ 


u 


m 


140 


AN    OTKN    (JLE^TIOX. 


of  Inez  made  Lcr  cling  to  tliitt  stmngo  Eiig- 
li.sliniiiu  upon  whom  blic  had  huv.n  tliconii, 
iiiid  wlio  hud  been  so  ri-udy  in  tlie  oH'tT  of  his 
ii8sistancc ;  but,  after  slie  learned  who  he  was, 
her  trust  in  him  became  boundless.  Tlio  con- 
tidcncc  which  she  put  in  him  was  met  with 
llie  fullest  return  on  lii.s  part ;  and  Inez,  who 
had  trusted  in  him,  wl\en  fehe  discovered  that 
he  was  the  friend  of  Dr.  IJlake,  at  length 
learned,  to  her  amazement,  that  ho  was  the 
husband  of  her  elder  sifter  Clara  This  din- 
eovcry  she  hailed  with  the  utmost  joy.  This 
<ino  fact  gave  her  n.  friend  and  protector. 
Jlorc,  it  gave  her  a  relative.  Kane  Ucllniuth 
was  thus  her  brother,  sinoe  he  was  her  f  ister's 
Imsband.  Could  any  thing  be  more  consoling 
than  this  ?  To  this  man,  then,  the  friend  of 
her  lover,  and  the  iiusbaiid  of  her  sister,  she 
gave  all  her  trust  and  tonljdence. 

A3  brotiicr  of  Inez,  Kuno  Ikllmuth  took 
licr  at  once  under  '  "s  protection.  lie  re- 
deemed her  from  her  didiculiie.s,  and  let  her 
have  suflleicnt  money  to  extricate  herself 
from  her  endjarrassments  without  the  sacri- 
tice  of  the  precious  relic  of  her  father.  As 
her  '  other,  ho  visited  her  at  the  house,  aul 
was  rccei^'i'd  with  Fmiios  of  welcome  by  the 
liiiid-hearied  landlady  and  her  daughter,  who 
were  filled  with  joy  ut  this  siiddcn  iniprove- 
n.ent  in  the  fortunes  of  the  sweet  young  Liig- 
lish  lady  that  had  become  sn  dear  to  them. 

In  the  course  of  their  coevcrsallons  Ki.ne 
Ilellnnilh  had  mentioned  to  her  what  he 
knew  of  Dr.  lilake,  but  did  not  siiow  her  his 
letter.  It  was  so  in''ohercnt  that  ho  -.vas 
afraid  that  it  miglu  ivcv  tfo  her  anxieties  if, 
as  he  strongly  r.uspectcii,  aUc  eared  niiieh  for 
him.  Ills  own  anxieties  about  IJhike  he  kept 
to  himself;  and,  indeed,  tliesc  were  now  com- 
plctely  eclipsed  by  his  anxieties  about  Inez. 

The  story  of  Inez  had  excited  wiiliin  him 
an  extraordinary  tumult  of  cdiitcnding  emo- 
tion. The  new  position  in  which  it  placed 
Kevin  Magrath,  was  the  most  astonl.shlng 
thiiig  to  him.  He  iiad  a  very  viviil  remem- 
brance of  that  man,  of  his  rollicking  Irish  ex- 
travagance, and  his  bitter  dcnunciatii^n  of 
the  "  destroyer  of  Clara  Mordaiint."'  lie  hail 
been  aceustomod  to  flunk  of  him  as  a  so;  t 
«)f  accu.'ing  witness  against  liimself;  but  now 
this  accuftiiig  witness  was  transformed  into  a 
remorseless  villain,  who  hnd  been  the  fratncr 
of  an  infamous  plot  against  a  defeneele.iR 
girl.  A  new  motive  for  act!.„i  was  roused 
within  him :  to  meet  this  mnu  again,  to  CX' 


tort  from  him  some  eatisfaction  for  his  mis* 
deeds,  or  bring  him  to  punishment. 

Apart  from  the  vili.;ny  of  Magrath,  there 
stood  forward,  prominently,  the  contradiction 
between  what  he  said  to  himself  and  what  he 
communicated  to  Inez,  To  lumself  he  had 
said  that  Inez  was  In^  •  '  .'yvernc ;  that  hi  i 
father,  llennigar  Wyvcrnc,  h.»d  left  her  pen- 
niless, and  thai  slie  would  be  dependent.  To 
Inez  he  had  plainly  declared,  by  his  letters, 
that  she  was  the  daughter  of  Uernal  Mor- 
daunt. 

To  liimself  ho  had  said  that  llennigar 
Wyvernc  owed  Ilernal  Mordaunt  money;  to 
Inez  ho  had  told  a  story  of  the  most  absurd 
and  extravagant  kisid. 

In  short,  all  that  Magrath  had  said  to  him 
was  utterly  opposed  in  eviry  rcpec'  'lut 

he  hnd  said  to  Inez. 

As  he  had  thus  lied  about  Inez,  Uiij,...  he 
not  also  have  lied  about  Clara  V 

Tliis  thought  started  up  in  Kane  lleli- 
mutli's  mind,  »nd  at  once  roused  his  "aper 
desire  to  make  new  Inrjuiries  about  the  death 
of  ills  lost  wife.  The  theory  that  Dr.  Bhikc 
had  suggested  had  once  before  deeply  im- 
pressed hini ;  the  statements  of  Magrath 
seemed  to  have  destroyed  that  theory ;  but 
now,  since  Magrath  had  been  proved  to  be  a 
villain  and  a  liar,  his  old  feelings  rose  up, 
and,  for  his  own  sake,  as  well  as  for  the  sake 
of  Inez,  he  resolved  to  enter  upon  a  fresh 
search  iiilo  the  whole  of  this  dark  mystery. 

It  was  a  mystery  before  which  ho  was 
completely  baflled.  It  seemed  to  be  a  fact, 
after  all,  that  llennigar  Wyvcrne's  dying 
declaration  was  true.  Inez  was  ilearly  the 
daughter  of  Ileriial  Mordaunt.  Wo\ild  it  be 
eipially  true  that  Dr.  Itlake  was  the  soii  of 
llennigar  Wyvernc?  lie  remendjered  how 
strongly  Blake  himself  had  at  one  time  been 
ineliiu'd  to  this  belief,  and  for  whose  sake  ho 
had  refrained  from  enleriuK  upon  a  search. 
It  wos  the  statement  of  Magrath  which  had 
driven  this  belief  out  of  lilakc's  mind,  but 
now  this  statement  iiad  turned  out  to  be  a 
lii>.  More  than  thi.s,  Magrath  himself  had 
been  shown  to  have  a  deep  inte:est  in  this 
lie;  he  hud  come  forward  as  an  active  perse- 
cutor, and,  in  intention,  a  destroyer  of  Inez. 
Would  he  have  the  same  motive  to  act  against 
Blake  ?  Could  Blake's  extraordinary  disap- 
pearance, and  Btil!  more  extraordinary  silence, 
bo  due  to  the  same  subtle  agency  ♦  Could 
the  man  who  hnd  beguiled  Inez  to  Taris  and 


|)r  Lis  iuis> 

rrntl),  tliero 
Intradictioii 
Intl  nliiit  lio 
fcK  be  liud 
tbat  bcr 
lit  her  pcn- 
lendeiit.  To 
his  letter.", 
iJiTual  llor- 

t   Ilcnnigar 

money;  to 

|iiiost  absurd 

said  to  bim 
hfc:        'lilt 

fz,  nii(,...  iic 

Kane  Ileli- 
cd  Ilia  ''apcr 
)iit  tlie  death 
lit  Dr.  Wake 
B  deeply  im- 
ol'  Uagratb 
theory ;  but 
roved  to  be  a 
iip;s  rose  up, 
I  for  tlie  fake 
upon  a  fresh 
k  inyptcry. 
hich  ho  was 
10  be  a  fact, 
.'rne's  dyiiij-^ 
8  ilcnrly  tin- 
Would  it  be 
I    tlic    foil    (if 

iiibered  how 
110  time  been 
liose  (>akc  hu 
nil  a  search, 
h  nhieh  had 
H  mind,  but 
out  to  bo  a 
himself  had 
le-est  in  thin 
active  pcric- 
)yer  of  Inez, 
oact  nffainst 
inary  disnp- 
tiary  silence, 
uy »  Could 
lo  I'aris  and 


A   FUI«II   IXrESTIUATlU.V. 


141 


entrapped  her,  luvc  bc;ruilod  DIake  aho  lo 
some  place  wiieic  he  mi^^ht  work  his  will  up- 
on bini  ?  Ulakc,  in  his  letter,  spokL  of  going 
"south  "  with  a  friend.  Could  this  friend  bo 
Magrath  ?    Could  tisat  "  south  "  be  Homo  ? 

.Such  were  tlie  thoughts  that  filled  Kane 
llellmulh's  niiud.  Tlie  \»liolo  situation  lie- 
came  a  djrk  and  insorutablo  problem.  It 
was  irapo.s.*iblc  to  solve  it  while  resting  inac- 
tive at  Paris.  It  was  necea:*ary  for  him  to 
net,  and  to  act  immediately,  both  for  the  sake 
of  Inez  and  ulr-o  for  the  sake  of  Blake. 

Another  also  appeared  to  Inez  to  be  in- 
volved in  this  mystery,  and  that  was  liessic. 
About  Bessie,  Kane  Ilellmulh  was  greatly 
trOiibled.  Inez  had  informed  him  of  Bes.sic's 
own  account  of  herself,  and  her  belief  that 
siio  was  the  daughter  of  Bernal  Mordaunt. 
The  name  Mordaunt  had  str  ick  him  very  for- 
cibly once  before,  and  now  it  afl'orded  equal 
iiiaticr  for  conjecture.  Ilr  was  puzzled,  but 
he  could  not  help  thinkuK;  thi't,  as  Inez  knew 
her  best,  her  conjectures  about  her  were  more 
just  than  his.  The  fact  that  she,  too,  was 
involved  in  thi.s  wide-cpreading  difliculty,  only 
atrorded  a  fresh  reason  for  instant  action  on 
his  part. 

fhis  decision  he  .iniiounced  to  Inez,  who 
ot  once  begged  that,  he  would  take  her  to 
I'liigland. 

To  this,  howeviT,  Kan(>  Ilellmuth  ob- 
jected. 

"  My  dear  Inez,"  said  he,  addicssing  her 
in  that  familiar  manner  which  was  justified 
by  his  near  relationship,  "you  are  really  safer 
here  than  anywhco  else.  There  arc  niony 
reasons  why  you  had  better  not  go.  Your 
enemies  will  think  that  you  are  in  Kiiglaiid 
even  now,  and  will  search  after  you  there. 
In  travelling  there  ^ith  me  you  would  be  cer- 
tain to  be  discovered,  and  I  also  would  be 
ki.')wn  as  your  friend  '.nd  companion.  They 
would  know  that  I  had  found  out  all — our  re- 
lationship, also — and  would  be  in  a  position 
to  baffle  me  in  my  search.  '"•  ,  too,  would 
bo  watched  ;  and,  as  I  should  liuvo  to  leave 
you,  I  couM  never  feel  comfortable  about 
you." 

"But  isn't  this  place  far  more  danger- 
ous V  " 

"  Xo,"  said  Kane  Hellmuth;  "on  the  con- 
trary, it's  the  safest  place  in  the  world.  They 
will  never  look  for  you  in  I'ari.s.  Then,  again, 
••ven  if  they  were  to  find  you,  they  could  do 
nothing.     I'aris  i.s  the  best-goveriicil  city  in 


the  world.  The  police  here  are  omniscient ; 
no  one  could  be  illegally  carried  oH".  You  arc 
absolutely  safe.  The  moment  )oii  left  that 
house,  you  were  safe.  If  the  old  woman  and 
Gounod  had  both  chased  and  captured  you, 
they  would  not  have  dareil  'o  take  you  back, 
unless  you  yourself  wished.  Any  remon- 
strance of  yours  would  Inve  drawn  the  atten- 
tion of  the  police,  (iounou  and  the  old  woman 
would  have  been  arrested  and  examined  ;  and 
that,  I  imagine,  is  about  the  la.t  tiling  that 
they  would  wi:ih  to  happen  to  the  n.  .Men  of 
(Jounod's  order  are  particularly  anxious  not 
to  get  into  the  hands  of  the  pidiec.  The  fact 
is,  there  is  no  place  in  the  world  where  you 
are  so  ab -olutcly  Pafc  as  you  are  here.  In 
Loudon  you  would  be  in  danger.  In  any  small 
town  anywhere  you  might  be  in  da.'ger.  Here, 
however,  no  danger  can  befall  you.  I  assure 
you  fcolemnly,  my  dear  Inez,  it  is  absolutely 
impossible  for  you  to  pet  into  the  hands  of 
that  miscreant  again,  unless  you  yourself 
voluntarily  go  there." 

At  this  Inez  smiled.  Kane  Ilellmuth's 
tone  completely  reassured  her.  The  idea  of 
putting  herself  voluntarily  into  the  hands 
of  Kevin  Magrath  was,  however,  excessively 
aniu.^ing  to  her. 

"  You  may  laugli,"  said  Kane  Ilellmuth, 
"  but  that  is  a  real  danger.  I5o  on  your 
guard.     Don't  let  him  tnlrap  you  again." 

"I  shouldn't  go  with  him,"  said  Inez, 
"  not  even  if  he  should  declare  that  my  papa 
was  dying,  as  he  did  before." 

"  CHi,  well,  he  wouldn't  use  ,liat  traj; 
agaii  ;  he  would  have  something  ciso  the 
next  time." 

"There  is  nothing  else," said  Inez;  "there 
is  no  other  living  bci'ig  through  whom  he  could 
work  upon  me." 

Kane  Ilellinutli  looked  at  her  earnest- 
ly. 

"  r  am  very  much  mistaken,  my  poor 
Inez, '  ^aid  he,  "if  there  is  not.  There  is,  I 
think,  one  other  human  being.  Be  on  your 
guard,  dear ;  don't  allow  yourself  to  bo  dc- 
ccired.  You  know  whom  I  mean.  Now,  if 
it  should  happen  that  you  should  hear  of  him 
in  B'.y  way  that  is  not  perfectly  free  from 
susp  eion,  be  on  your  guard." 

nez  lool:ed  down  on  the  floor  with  a 
heightened  color,  and  in  scmie  surprise.  Sho 
di(.  not  know  about  Kar.o  Ilellmuth's  fcart* 
lor  Bl«!;e,  or  his  suspicions  about  Magrath'a 
possible  intentions  toward  hira  also. 


!  • 


142 


AX   OPEN  QUESTION. 


Ill 


i 

M        -I 


ii  <ii 


"I'm  sure  I  don't  sec  liow  that  could  be," 
said  she. 

"  Well,  no  matter,"  gaid  Kauo  llel'mulh. 
"  Only  promise  me  that  you  will  not  go  any- 
where without  ample  protection  and  bcuu- 
rity." 

"01'.,  of  course,"  said  Inez;  "I'm  sure 
I've  Icumcd  too  Lard  a  Icdsou  to  forget  it 
easily." 

"  I  Lope  you  may  not,"  said  Kaue  IIcll- 
math. 

In  view  of  Uiis  proposed  journey,  Inez 
would  luivo  been  /;'ad,  indeed,  if  she  could 
Lave  given  him  uny  information  which  might 
assist  him  in  Uio  search.  liut  this  she  was 
ui..i'ulo  to  do.  She  knew  of  no  one  who  was 
acquaimcd  with  the  past  of  herself,  except, 
perhaps,  old  Mrs.  Klein.  That  person  had 
certainly  given  htr  some  valuable  informa- 
tion, but  she  did  it  incidentally,  and  in  a  hnp- 
Luznrd  fashion.  An  old  creature,  so  sodden 
with  drink  as  she  was,  could  not  be  expected 
to  give  any  coherent  answers  to  a  regular 
series  of  questions.  Of  this  she  informed  Kane 
Ilellmulh,  who  took  down  her  name  ami  ad- 
dress, and  thought  tliat  it  might  be  worth 
while  to  pay  the  old  woman  a  visit. 

When  he  bade  her  good-by  that  evening, 
it  was  with  a  certain  solemn  foreboding  of 
iudeQuablc  evil  that  was  possible — some  evil 
that  might  happen  to  her  or  to  himself,  be- 
fore they  mi^lit  meet  again. 

"  Good-by,  Inez,  dear  sister  1  Remember 
what  you  promised." 

"  Good-by,  Kaue  !  "  said  Inez,  in  a  voice 
full  of  emotion. 

She  felt  us  though  she  was  losing  her  only 
friend.  A  tear  stood  in  her  eye.  Kane  Ilell- 
n.uth  held  her  Lund  in  liis,  and  looked  nt  her 
with  tt  softened  expression  on  his  stern 
face. 

Then  he  stooped,  and  kissed  her. 

Then  he  turned,  and  left  the  house. 

On  the  following  morning  he  left  for  Lon- 
don, and  arrived  there  in  due  time.  He  bad 
not  been  there  for  years,  and  had  no  ac- 
queinianccs  in  particular.  The  soliciiors  of 
his  father  were  tlic  ones  from  whom  he  hop»d 
to  find  out  something,  ihougli  whut  that  ^<>ine 
thing  might  be  he  hardly  knew.  lie  did  not 
know  what  course  of  action  might  be  required 
on  his  own  part.  He  did  not  know  nhelhcr 
it  would  be  bc<t  to  carry  on  the  work  which 
he  Lad  before  him  in  secret,  or  to  l)roak 
through  that  law  of  sileuco  which  he  had  im- 


I  posed  on  himself  since  his  wife's  death.  IIo 
held  himself  in  readiness  to  adopt  whatever 
course  might  be  best  for  the  fullilmeut  of  tho 
work  in  which  ho  was  engaged. 

His  first  act  was  to  go  to  tho  house  in 
which  Mr.  Wyverne  had  lived.  Upon  reach- 
ing it,  he  found  it  closed.  It  was  evident, 
ihercfcirc,  that  Iks.sie  MorJaiiut  must  bo 
sought  fo""  elscivhcre. 

He  ''.en  thought  of  Mrs.  Klein,  and  at 
once  drove  off  to  visit  her,  Tho  address 
which  Inez  had  given  him  enabled  him  to 
lind  her  without  diflicuhy,  as  she  was  still 
living  in  the  same  place. 

Although  Inez  had  given  him  a  vcrj'  good 
idea  of  her  interview  with  Mr.''.  Klein,  still 
the  sight  of  tho  «ld  woman  was  somewhat 
disheartening  to  one  who  came,  like  Kane 
Ilellmuth,  in  the  character  of  an  investigator 
after  truth,  and  nn  eager  questioner.  It  was 
not  the  bottle  at  her  elbow,  nor  her  blesry 
eyes,  nor  her  confused  manner,  that  troubled 
him.  I<'or  this  ho  was  prepared.  It  wa.<» 
rather  the  altitude  which  Mrs.  Klein  chose  to 
take  up  toward  him.  She  threw  at  him  one 
look  of  sharp,  cunning  suspicion,  as  he  an- 
nounced to  lior  that  he  had  come  to  ask  her 
a  few  questioiip,  and  then  obstinately  refused 
to  answer  a  single  wo"d. 

The  fact  is,  Kant  Ilellmuth  was  a  bad 
diplomntist,  and  soon  perceived  that  he  had 
mane  a  mistake.  This  lie  liastencd  to  rectify 
in  a  way  which  seemed  to  liim  best  adapted 
to  mollify  one  of  Mrs.  Klein's  appearance, 
which  was  the  somewhat  coarse  but  at  the 
same  tim-;  very  elficiicious  offer  of  a  sover- 
eign. 

The  cITcct  was  magical. 

Her  fat,  flabby  fingers  clo-icd  lovingly 
around  it;  and  she  surveyi.'d  Kane  Ilellmuth 
with  a  mild,  maternal  look,  which  beamed 
benevolently  ujion  him  from  her  watery 
eyes, 

"  Deary  me  I "  she  said  ;  "  and  you  such  r 
'andsome  young  gentleman,  ns  is  eomin'  to 
visit  a  poor  old  creetiir  as  is  deserted  by  nil 
kith  and  kin,  which  it's  truly  lavish  and  boun- 
tiful you  are  as  over  *as,  and  him  ns  gives  to 
the  poor  l.iids  to  the  Lord,  ami  may  it  bo 
restored  'o  you  a  'undredfoM,  with  my  'umblo 
dooly,nnd  prayer  that  your  days  may  be  long 
in  the  hind,  for  cverinoie,  and  me  a  'om.m  as 
lios  feen  better  days,  whicl:  I'm  now  brought, 
down  to  this;  and  m  ny  Ihnnks,  my  kind, 
kind  gfiitleman.for  ali  your  kui'iness  shown." 


A  FRESH  1NVESTU7ATI0.V. 


143 


Iciith.  Ho 
t  whatover 
icut  of  tiio 

house  in 
pon  rcach- 

IS    CVillRIlt, 

tiiiist    bo 

.'in,  and  at 
)c  uddfcs!) 
'il  liim  to 
was  atill 

vip;  good 
\.ii'in,  slill 
somcwlint 
lil(c  Kane 
nvcstigator 
cr.     It  waa 
lirr  bleary 
It  troubled 
It   was 
;in  chose  to 
at  liiin  one 
03  lie  un- 
to ask  her 
tfly  refused 

was  a  bad 
hat  he  hail 
kI  to  rectify 
Dst  adapted 
appearance, 

but  at  the 
of  a  Bovor- 


id  lovingly 
B  Ilrllmutli 
icli  beamed 
ler    watery 

you  «uch  a 
I  comin'  to 
jrtcd  by  all 
I  11  nd  boun- 
ns  gives  to 
may  it  bo 
my  'umi)lo 
nay  be  Ion;* 
a  'oni.m  as 
ow  brought. 
,  my  Itind, 
»S9  shown." 


"Sco  here,  now,  Mrs.  Klein,"  said  Kaue 
Ilellmuth,  sharply — "gather  up  your  wits,  if 
you  can.  I  want  you  to  answer  one  or  two 
questions.  You  know  ail  about  Ucunigur 
Wyverne's  family." 

Mrs.  Klein  gave  a  sigh : 

"  Whiuh  'im  as  is  dead  and  gone,  and  was 
the  kindcBt  and  mildest-mannered  gentleman 
as  ever  I  sot  heycs  on,  and  alius  treated  me 
that  generous  that  I  could  have  blacked  liis 
boots  for  very  love,  and  his — " 

"  All  right.  Now,  sec  here.  There  was 
Inez  Mordaunt,  that  lived  iu  his  house — " 

"  Miss  lliny — my  own  sweet  child  alive — 
and  me  that  loved  her  like — " 

"  Oil,  of  course.  You  see  1  know  all  about 
her.  But  I  want  to  osk  you  about  another. 
Who  is  this  other  girl  that  lived  at  Mr. 
Wyveme's,  and  called  Lei'self  licssio  Mor- 
daunt?" 

"  Which  there  never  was  no  girl  called 
Bessie,  and  she  didn't  live  there.  She  waa 
sent  oiT  to  France,  and  her  a  young  thing  as 
had  just  lost  her  mother.  For  my  part,  I  al- 
ius says  to  Mr.  Wy vcruo— says  I,  '  Sir,'  says 
I,  '  Miss  Clara's  too  young  to — '  " 

"  Clara  !  "  exclaimed  Ilellmnth,  with  • 
strange  intonaiion.  "  What  bccdinc  of  Ler  f 
Tell  me— tell  me— tell  me  !  " 

Mrs.  Klein  gave  a  doleful  sigh,  and  shook 
her  head  solemnly. 

"  V.'iiiuh  she's  dead  and  gone,  and  ib  a 
blessed  angel  these  many  years,  kind  air ;  and 
bognin'  yer  humble  pardon,  but  it's  better  for 
her  as  is  far  awiy  from  a  world  of  sin  &n<l 
woe,  and  all  tiic  chances  end  clmnjues  of  this 
mortial  spcre.     And  I  alius. said  as — " 

"  Yes,  yc,"  said  Ilellmuth,  with  some  im- 
potionoe,  hastily  changing  the  conversation. 
"But  this  one  I  mean  called  bcraolf  Bo«- 
Bie." 

Mrs.  Klein  shook  her  hca  I. 

"  Hhe  was  named  Clara — J  don't  know  any 
fiessic — and  I  take  my  IJiblr  oath— and  never 
fear— " 

"  She  may  have  come  tu  the  house  after 
yon  left." 

"And  very  likely,  an<l  me  'as  alius,  kind 
sir,  kcp'  that  house  that  orderly  ax  wos  beau- 
tiful to  be'old;  but  what  goiu'a  on  there  was 
there  after  I  left,  Lord  only  knows,  an'  Mr. 
Wyveme  that  mild  that  anybody  could  im- 
pose on  'im  same  ua  if  ho  was  a  new-bom 
babo— " 

"Dovouknowa  man  nnnxMi   K<>vtn   Ma- 


grath  ?  "  said  Kane  Ilellrauth,  ligidly  holding 
her  to  the  points  about  whicli  he  wished  to 
question  her,  oud  checking  her  headlong  gar- 
rulity. 

Mrs.  Klein  looked  at  him  with  a  bleary 
gaze,  and  again  wagged  licr  fat  old  head. 

"  Won't  you  tak>'  somethin'  warm,  kind 
air  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Xo,"  said  Kane  IlcUmulh.  "  Uut  about 
Kevin  Ma;,-rath — can  you  tell  me  any  thing?  " 

Mr<-  Klein  poured  out  a  g'ass  of  iKiuor, 
and  slowly  swallowed  it.  Then  she  Kmauked 
her  lips.     Then  she  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  'Im,"  said  she,  "  as  was  the  scipcnt  that 
stolu  into  that  lledcu,  and  me  alius  lellin'  Mr. 
Wyverue.  Says  I,  'Sir,  beware;  'c'U  put 
your  neck  inside  the  gallus'-nooso.'  And 
where  ho  came  and  where  ho  v.'cnt  I  do  not 
know,  nor  can  tell,  savir.'  an'  except  as  ho 
wos  a  willain — a  out-an'-outer — and  mc  as 
knows  no  more  about  him  than  that" 

Mrs.  Klein  evidently  coidd  say  nothing 
about  Magrath  more  deliniic  than  this.  Kane 
Ilellmuth  questioned  her  u^ain  and  again,  but 
the  answer  was  always  of  the  aamn  kind,  llis 
vi.sit  here  secniud,  therefore,  a  failure,  and  he 
felt  inclined  to  retire  and  leave  Mrs.  Klein 
alone  with  the  beloved  society  of  her  buttle, 
liut  he  hud  one  qucaliou  yet  to  ask,  and  upon 
her  answer  to  this  very  much  depended. 

"  See  here,"  said  he.  "Can  you  tell  nu; 
any  thing  more  about  Bornal  Mordaunt  'f 
Where  did  he  come  iVom  ?     Wlio  was  he  ?  " 

Mrs.  Klein  seemed  to  rouse  herself  at  this 
last  ({ueslion.  Slie  looked  at  liim  with  Ic.'s 
stupidity  in  her  sodden,  boozy  lace. 

"  Which  as  hevery  one  knows,"'  said  she, 
"  and  I  wonders  much  as  'ow  hevcr  a  fine 
gentleman  like  you  turns  \ip  and  'us  never 
'card  of  Ilernal  Murdauut.  They  kept  it  close 
from  Clara,  and  made  .out  us  'ow  it  was  'er 
huncle's  'ome,  or  second  cousin,  and  hit  'er 
father's  hnwn  piaec,  and  one  of  the  grandest 
and  gorceouscMt  in  the  kin;;doin;  for,  as  I 
alius  auv.i.  tisn't  hevery  girl  as  baa  a  in'cr- 
itanoe  like  Mordaunt  Manor." 

"  Mordaunt  Manor  I  "  oried  Kane  IIcll- 
nutli. 

He  shrunk  away  from  the  old  woman,  and 
snt  looking  at  her  with  a  pale  face  and  §jmm- 
ing  eyes. 

"  Mordaunt  Manor,  ua  hcver  was,"  said 
Mrs.  Klein,  "  which  I  knnwed  it  nil  nhiiip, 
and  pore  Mr.  Wyverne,  as  is  dead  and  gone, 
knowcd  as  I  knowed  it,  though  ihoin  children 


■•: 


14+ 


AN    orivN    yiKSTlON. 


Hi 

m 

I  4   ^ 


\i 


were  that  lied  to  timt  thoy  dulii'i  know  tl)t'ir 
own  ('iithcr's  'ouse." 

"  Moi'daunt  Manor ! "  exclaimed  Kane  IIcU- 
niuth  again,  upon  whom  thiH  inibrmatiDii  hud 
produced  a  most  extraordinary  cfleet,  "In 
what  county  ?  " 

"  Mordaunt  Manor  as  i-i  in  Cunilicrlanii 
Count.v — whicli  there  never  was  but  one  Mor- 
daunt Manor,  as  anybody  hever  'canl  hon." 

Kani"  lU'lhnuth  started  '  Lis  feet.  lie 
had  heard  enoufrh.  Ilia  niiud  was  ■'wide  up 
to  some  Hudden  coursii ,  .  •'. .  t lod  b.  thin  new 
inrorinatiun.  J(o  hit  abruptly,  and  hurried 
buck  to  bin  hotel. 

That  evo'iini;  he  was  hurryinf^  on  by  ex- 
press out  (if  Loudon  toward  the  nortli. 


CH.VPTKU   X.KXV. 
THE    T  w  o    n  !:  o  T  n  K  n  .-^ . 

TiiK  sudden  resolution  which  Kane  IIcll- 
niutli  hail  taken  wai*  noc  without  a  siilTleient 
cause.  The  eonnectinn  which  Jlra.  Klein's 
ir.roriiiation  had  established  brtween  the  chil- 
dren of  liernal  Murdaunt  and  Mordaunt  Manor 
pave  rise  to  uunieruus  suspicions  iii  his  niitiil. 
I  f  they  were  the  heiresses  of  Mordaunt  Manor, 
then  there  was  supplied  that  which  his  mind 
had  long  souj^ht  after — namely,  a  motive  for 
the  plot  n^iainst  Inez,  and  fur  that  plot  in 
whicli  it  now  appeared  tliat  Clara  had  been 
involved.  Yet,  if  thii  wen;  so,  why  had  not 
(.'lara  known  it?  If  Mordaunt  Manor  was 
her  home,  why  had  she  never  Baid  >'()  ?  The 
only  aii'-wtr  to  this  lay  in  Mrs.  KK'in'.s  inco- 
herent remarks  about  "  lies  "  which  were  told 
her,  80  that  she  diiln't  know  her  own  faiber's 
house.  She  may  have  left  it  at  so  early  an 
npe  that  she  had  no  certainty  about  its  beint' 
her  home,  and  afterward  iiiay  have  been  nuule 
to  believe  tiiat  it  belonged  to  sonic  one 
else. 

In  any  case,  however,  it  now  seemed  tit 
Kane  llellMiulh  that  Mordaunt  .Manor  it- 
self was  the  best  place  for  biui  to  (,'o  to.  If 
it  belonged  to  liernal  Mordaunt,  he  liiinsclf 
would  be  mora  likely  to  bo  the  'c  tlinn  uny- 
wheru  else;  and,  if  he  was  hot  there,  lie 
Mli^;ht  find  out  where  he  really  w a ^.  If  Kevin 
Magrath's  plot  really  had  reference  to  this, 
he  iidglii  possibly  find  out  tlieiu  Bomrtliini; 
about  him.  Or,  if  neither  of  tlicHc  could  be 
found,  there  was  a  remote  probftbillty  that  ho 


might  hear  something  about  Ues.sie.  Tor  all 
these  reasons,  then,  und  for  others  which  will 
afterward  appear,  Slordaunt  Slanor  seemed  to 
him  to  bo  by  far  the  best  place  that  could  bu 
found  for  u  centre  of  operations. 

On  reaching  Keswick  he  stopped  at  the 
inn,  when-  he  obtained  answers  to  all  the 
questions  that  he  chose  to  ask ;  nnd  these 
answers  filled  him  with  amazement.  In 
these  answers  there  was  eommuuieated  to 
him  a  nundter  of  facts  which  were  incompre- 
hensible, bewildering,  overwhelming ! 

The  first  thing  that  he  learned  was  that 
FJcmai  Mordaunt  had  returned  home  alter  uii 
absence  of  years,  and,  after  a  brief  decline, 
had  died  there. 

Moreover,  ho  hod  been  welcomed  homo 
by  his  daughter. 

This  daughter  had  herself  come  home  but 
a  short  time  before,  after  an  absence  of 
years. 

This  d.iughter  had  cheered  the  declining 
days  of  the  feeble  old  man,  had  given  her- 
self up  to  him  with  u  devotion  ond  a  tender 
love  that  was  almost  superhuman.  In  that 
love  the  old  man  had  solaced  himself,  and  ht) 
had  died  in  her  loving  arms. 

Moreover,  the  liumc  of  this  daughter  was 
Inez  Mordaunt ! 

This  Inez  Mordaunt  h.ul  filled  men  of 
every  degree  with  adn.i  ation  for  her  beaut_ , 
her  fascinating  grace,  her  accessibility,  her 
generosity,  and,  above  all,  for  her  tender  love 
and  unparallelci!  devotion  to  her  aged  fa- 
ther. 

This  Inez  Mordaunt  ah-o  liad  married  a 
man  who  was  worthier  of  her  than  any  other  ; 
be  was  also  a  resident  of  the  county,  and  thus 
she  would  not  be  lost  to  the  Hoeioty  which 
admired  her  so  greatly  and  so  justly.  Her 
father  had  haxteiied  on  the  nnii  riiige  before 
his  death,  so  that  he  should  not  leave  her 
alone  in  the  world.  Kven  after  her  marringo 
this  noble  daughter  showed  the  same  death- 
less devotion  to  that  falher  for  whom  >iie  hud 
done  so  much. 

The  liuppy  man  who  had  won  «o  noble  a 
woman  fo.'  his  wile  tt.i'-;  Kir  Gwyn  Itiithven, 
of  Uulhvcn  Towers. 

All  this  is  familiar  to  the  reader,  but  all 
was  not  familiar  to  K. me  llelbiiuih.  4>ne  by 
one  these  facts  came  to  him  like  si>  many  sut:- 
cessivc  blows — blows  of  treimndoiis  power — 
blows  resistless,  bewildering,  overwhelming, 
falling  upon   his  soul    in    ever  accumulating 


For  nil 

which  will 

socnied  to 

could  bu 

prd  nt  llio 
to  all  tho 
iMul  thcso 
iicnt.  In 
lioatod  to 
iiicoinpri;- 

d  wns  that 
ne  after  un 
L'f  tlccline, 

iiiiid   homo 

(■  home  but 
ibi^enco   d' 

10  declining 
I  Riven  her- 
lid  a,  fender 
n.  In  that 
self,  and  ho 

aughter  was 

lied  men  of 
'  her  beftu'.. , 
isibility,  her 
:  tender  love 
ler  ngid  fa- 
it nmrvied  a 
n  any  other ; 
ity,  and  thus 
Dciety  whioh 
justly.  Her 
riage  before 
ot  Kavo  her 
ler  ninrringo 
saiiio  dcath- 
honi  ^hn  had 

1  so  noble  a 
yn  Itiithven, 

>flder,  but  nil 
mil.  (>ne  liy 
««■>  many  suu- 
loiis  power— 
vcrnhi'linlnf;, 
neciimuliitlng 


TJIK   TWO   DKOTllEUS. 


145 


force,  until  the  last  one  descended  and  left 
him  in  a  state  of  utter  confusion  and  help, 
lees  uncertainty. 

With  the  Drat  fact  he  was  able  to  grapple. 
It  was  intelligible  that  Hernal  Mordaunt  had, 
after  all,  coiuu  home,  here,  to  Mordaunt 
Manor.  It  \va»  intelligible  that  he  had  roached 
his  homo  weak  and  worn  out ;  and  that  ho 
had  died.  It  was  intelligible  and  probable 
that  Dernal  Mordaunt  was  now  dead,  and 
buried,  and  that  liia  remains  were  actually  in 
the  family  vaults  of  Mordaunt  Manor. 

So  far,  80  good;  but  now,  when  Kane 
Ilellinuth  advanctrd  thus  far  on  this  solid 
';iOund,  and  looked  out  beyond,  he  found 
every  thing  misty,  gloomy,  uncertain,  chaotic, 
and  unintelligible. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  this  daughter? 
She  had  reached  homo  not  long  before  her 
father.  He  had  recognized  her.  Ho  had 
found  happiness  in  her.  Her  love  and  devo- 
tion for  him  was  spoken  of  as  something 
nearly  superhuman.  Had  Berual  Mordaunt, 
then,  another  daughter? 

The  name  of  this  daughter  was  Inez  Mor- 
daunt. 

Inez  Mordaunt !  Hut  ho  had  left  Inez 
Mordaunt  in  I'uris,  where  she  had  been  de- 
coyed by  letters  forged  in  the  name  of  her 
father,  Uernr!  Mordaunt.  What  Inez  Mor- 
daunt wa.t  this  ? 

Could  his  Inez — his  sister  Inez — be  mis- 
taken ?  Impossible.  His  Inez  was  the  sis- 
ter of  his  Clara.  The  likenc?s  between  thera 
was  so  entraoriliiiary  that  he  had  stopped  her 
in  the  •Ircet,  and  carried  her  senseless  to  his 
lodgings.  Since  then  he  had  heard  her  whole 
story.  Ho  had  tho  testimony  of  Mrs.  Klein 
to  the  identity  of  his  Inez  with  lier  who  was 
once  called  Inez  Wyverne.  His  Inez  was  the 
sister  of  his  lost  Clara  beyond  a  doubt. 

Were  they,  or  were  they  not,  the  children 
of  Birnal  Morlaunt?  Ho  know  that  they 
must  be.  His  Clara  was,  ho  knew ;  and  that 
Inez  was,  he  also  knew. 

Could  there  be  two  IJerna!  Mordiunts  ? 
One,  the  father  of  his  Inez;  tho  other,  the 
father  of  this  strange  Inez  here?  Impossi- 
ble. Mr:*.  Klein's  testimony  pointrl  to  Mor- 
daunt Manor  as  tin-  home  of  Clara  and  of 
I  lie/..  Iliit,  if  so,  why  had  not  his  (Mara 
'..uown  this  in  her  life  ?  Or  was  a  creature 
liko  Mrs.  Klein  to  bo  trusted  iu  any  thing 
whati'ver?  Might  he  not  have  come  here  on 
a  fool's  errand  ? 
10 


No. 

Tho  answer  to  this  lay  in  Kevin  Ma- 
grath's  plots,  and  in  the  fact  that  Mordaunt 
Manor  alone  formed  a  sufficient  cause  and 
motive  for  them.  Without  Mordaunt  Manor 
ho  was  an  insane  seliemer ;  with  Mordaunt 
Manor  ho  was  a  villain  aiming  at  a  magniticcnt 
prize. 

Hut,  if  this  was  so,  what  part  had  he  in 
the  inngiiilicent  prize  ?  Was  it  not  already 
held  by  this  other  Inez,  this  wonder  among 
women,  this  pious  daui:hter,  this  paragon? 
And  wliut  was  there  in  common  between  her 
and  oiu-  like  Kevin  Magrath?  Yet  Ilernal 
Mordaunt  had  come  homo,  from  his  years  of 
exile  and  sorrow,  to  Mordaunt  Manor,  and 
there  was  his  daughter  Inez  to  welcome  him, 
his  daughter  whom  he  loved,  and  in  whoso 
arms  he  died. 

Hut  beyond  nil  these  bewildering  and  con* 
trailietory  facts  lay  another  which  p.oduceJ 
upon  Kane  HcUmuth's  mind  an  eflcet  so 
strong  that  it  may  be  called  tho  climax  of 
them  all. 

This  Inez  Mordaunt  had  married  Owyn 
Hulhvcn.  They  were  living  now  at  Ituthven 
Towers. 

Over  this,  Kane  Ilellrauth  brooded  lonf; 
and  solemnly.  In  this  last  fact  ho  saw  that 
which  would  open  to  him  a  way  by  which 
all  the  others  would  be  made  plain.  Yet  tho 
way  was  not  one  which  he  would  have  chosen. 
He  would  rather  have  tried  any  other  way. 
It  came  in  opposition  to  his  self-inflicted 
punishment.  It  would  terminate  tho  silcneo 
of  years.  It  would  put  an  end  to  that  seclu- 
sion ill  which  ho  had  thrust  him.'<clf,  and 
draw  upon  him  tho  glare  of  day.  Thus  far 
he  had  been,  as  he  called  himself,  a  dead  man 
— this  would  force  him  to  rise  from  the  dead. 
This  was  not  what  Ik  wished.  Hut  it  was 
too  late  to  go  back.  He  had  set  forth  in  this 
path.  The  way  now  lay  straight  before  him 
to  Kuthven  Towers,  to  (iwyn  Kuthven  and  his 
wife,  wiio  had  called  herself  'nez  Mordaunt. 
Could  ho  now  turn  back  ?     Dare  he  do  it? 

He  dare  not.  For  the  sake  of  Inez,  whoso 
wrongs  were  still  in  his  mind,  for  the  sake  of 
his  lost  wife,  who  alsr  bnd  suffered  wrongA 
that  seemed  to  have  come  from  tho  samo 
source  from  which  had  (lowed  the  wrongs  of 
Inez ;  for  his  own  take,  too  ;  for  every  reasou 
that  can  animate  a  man  to  action  ho  felt 
himself  impelled  to  go  onward,  and  to  peno* 
trate  thia  mystery. 


TJi 


146 


AN   OPEN    QUESTION. 


ir  -it 


Nuw,  Kano  IlcUmuth  was  a  man  who, 
when  ho  had  onco  resolved  on  any  coiiisc, 
bad  no  other  idea  in  liia  mind  llian  a  Bimpio, 
8truif;litl'orwHrd,  and  tenaciouH  pursuit  of  it 
till  his  purpu.su  might  be  accumpliiilu'd. 

Had  tiiis  otlicr  Inez  Morduuut  siill  been 
unmarried,  ho  would  havo  avoided  (iwyn 
Rniliveii.  lie  woulil  have  gone  to  her.  lie 
Would  have  seen  her,  and  (|uestioncd  her,  and 
thu.s  have  satislied  himself,  if  satisfaction  had 
been  possible.  liut  she  was  now  the  wife  of 
Owyn  Uuthven.  iler  id''ntity  was  merged  in 
his.  He  eould  not  go  and  interrogate  the 
wile  apart  from  the  husband.  The  only  way 
to  the  wife  lay  through  the  husband.  To  the 
husband,  therefore,  he  mu.st  go;  and  so  Kane 
Ilellmutli,  on  this  day,  set  forth  for  Rutlivcn 
Towers  and  (Iwyn  Kuthven. 

Ho  rode  on  horscbnek. 

Ho  was  searee  conscii-us  of  tho  scenery 
around  him  us  he  rode  along,  though  that 
scenery  wus  wondrously  beautiful.  He  was 
GonHtdering  what  might  be  the  best  course  of 
action. 

lly  tho  time  that  he  reached  tho  gate  of 
Ruthven  Towers  he  had  decided.  After  this, 
he  was  less  preoccupied.  He  passed  '."irough 
the  gates.  Ho  looked  all  around  with  strnngc 
feelings.  He  rode  up  tho  long  avenue.  Ho 
dismounted.     He  entered  It  'thven  Towers. 

On  iu(|uiry,  he  learned  that  Sir  (iwyn 
Ruthven  was  at  liome.  He  gave  his  name, 
and  was  shown  to  a  large  room  on  the  right. 
IIo  entered  and  wailed. 

He  did  not  have  to  wait  Ion;;.  Sir  (Jwyn 
was  prompt,  and  soon  came  down  to  see  his 
visitor. 

Kane  Ilellmuth  was  itandiug  in  the  mid- 
dli  of  the  room,  .''ir  Gwvn,  on  entering, 
bowed  courtooucly.  Kane  bowed  also.  Then 
Sir  Ciwyu  seemed  to  be  struck  by  something 
in  the  appearance  of  his  vi:'itor.  He  looked 
hard  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  he  looked 
away,  then  he  looked  again,  this  time  with 
an  :iir  of  perplexity.  Kano,  on  his  part, 
looked  at  t>ir  (twyii,  and  his  stern  face  soft- 
ened. Indeed,  .Sir  tlwyn  was  one  upon  whom 
no  one  eoutd  look  without  u  sense  of  pleas- 
ure. It  wflg  not  because  ho  was  what  is 
called  handsome-,  not  on  account  of  any  mere 
regularity  of  leatiire,  but  rather  on  account 
of  a  certain  fresh,  honest,  frank  expression 
that  reigned  there;  because  of  the  clear, 
open  ga7.p,  tho  broad,  white  brow,  tho  air 
of  high  breeding  mingled  also  with  a  boyish 


heartiness  and  simplicity.  Sir  Gwyn,  in 
short,  hud  that  air  which  is  eo  attractive  in  a 
higli-bred  boy  of  tho  best  type — tho  air  of 
naturalness,  of  frankness,  of  guilelessnese, 
and  generobitr.  Vnr  this  reason,  tho  hard  look 
died  out  of  Kunc  Ilcllmuth's  eyes,  ar.d  a 
gentler  and  softer  light  shone  in  them  as  they 
rested  on  Sir  Uwyn. 

"  I  hope  you  will  excuse  mo  for  troubling 
you.  Sir  (iwyn,"  said  Kane  Ilellmuth,  at 
length,  ''but  i  have  come  a  great  distance 
for  the  pur|)ose  of  making  some  inquiries  at 
Mordaunt  Manor.  I  bad  no  idea  that  Mr. 
Mord.iunt  was  dead  until  my  arrival  here; 
ond,  as  my  buhiness  is  of  the  utmost  impor- 
tance, I  have  thought  it  probable  that  I 
might  obtain  the  inforn)ation  that  I  wish 
from  yourself,  or  from  Lady  Uuthven." 

At  tho  sound  of  Kane  Ilellmuth's  voico, 
Sir  (Iwyn  gave  a  start  and  frowned,  and  lis- 
tened with  a  puzzled  expression.  Ho  was 
evidently  much  perpleiid  about  something, 
and  he  himself  could  scarcely  tell  what  that 
I  something  was 

I         "I'm  sure,"    said  ho,    "that  both   Lady 
1  Ruthven  and  myself  will  be  hnppy  to  give 
you  any  information  that  we  can." 

"It  all  refer.","  continued  Kane  Ilellmuth, 
"to  the  life  of  Mr.  Mordaunt  ofter  his  return 
lumie.  I  om  well  aware  of  liis  long  absence. 
Since  his  return,  however,  it  is  very  probable 
tluit  he  has  spoken  of  these  tiungs  about 
which  I  u  i.^h  to  ask." 

"  Very  probably,"  said  Sir  (Jwyn,  slowly, 
with  perplexity  siill  in  his  face.  "Ho  was 
very  cunmiunicative  to  me." 

"What  I  should  like  to  ask  first,"  said 
Kano  Ilellmuth,  "  refers  to  an  affair  at  Villo- 
ueuve.  Did  Mr.  Mordaunt  ever  mention  to 
you  any  thing  about  the  death  of  Mr.  Wyverne 
at  that  place  V" 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  told  me  all  about  it." 

"Tlianks,"  said  Kane  Ilellmuth.  "What 
I  wished  to  know  was  whether  it  was  tho 
same  Mr.  Mordaunt.  I  did  not  know  but 
that  it  might  have  been  another  person.  IIo 
did  not  piv  ■  his  name,  ^"'d  it  was  only  my 
conjecture  tiiat  it  was  he." 

"  It  was  Mr.  Mordaunt  himself,"  said  Sir 
(iwyn.  "  Ho  told  mo  all  about  that  occur- 
rence, and  also  all  about  his  past  connection 
with  Mr.  Wyverne." 

This  reply  settled  one  thing ;  namely,  tho 
identity  of  this  Bernal  Mordaunt  with  the  fa- 
ther of  !iis  Inez. 


TIIK   TWO   lllloTIIKKS. 


147 


tiwyn,  in 
active  in  a 
the  air  of 
ilclcusncsfi, 
0  Imnl  iouk 
yep,  ar.d  a 
lem  as  they 

r  trouLlins 

llniiith,   at 

at  (liiitanco 

iU|iiirii'S  lit 

;i   tliat  Mr. 

rival  licro; 

most  impor- 

bic   that   I 

at   I   wish 

ivcn." 

nuth'B  voico, 

ncd,  and  lis- 

)n.     He  was 

something, 

II  what  thut 

t  both  Lady 
api'y  to  give 
1." 

no  Ikllmuth, 
or  hi«  return 
h)iig  absence, 
very  probable 
thinga  obout 

(iwyn,  slowly, 
:e.     "Ho  was 

k  first,"  said 
ilTair  nt  Villc- 
T  uiciition  to 
fMr.  Wyverne 

out  it." 

»uth.  "  What 
er  it  was  the 
lot  know  but 
r  person.  IIo 
,  was  only  my 

self,"  (tnld  Sir 
lit  that  occur, 
ast  connection 

T ;  namely,  tho 
nl  with  the  fa- 


"Thanks,"  Bivid  Kunc  Hollmuth;  "and 
now  I  uifih  to  ask  one  or  two  otiior  things. 
They  i-cfcr  to  his  family.  They  conoorn  niy- 
8oli'  very  nearly,  or  I  should  not  ask  them. 
They  are  only  of  a  geuoral  character.  Would 
you  have  any  objoctioiis  tu  toll  mo  how  many 
children  Mr.  .Morduunt  had  V  " 

"Certainly  nat,"  said  Sir  Gwyn.  "He 
had  two  daughters,  that  is  ull.  The  nunio  of 
the  oldoiil  was  Clara." 

"  Clara  1"  said  Kane  llcllmuth,  iu  u 
strange  voice. 

"  Tho  oiher  one,"  continued  Sir  Gwyn, 
"  was  named  Inez." 

'•Is  —  Clara  —  alive  yet?"  asked  Kone 
Ilellniuth,  in  a  tremulous  voice. 

"No,"  said  Sir  Uwyn,  "she  died  ten 
yeora  ago." 

"  Ah !  and  the  younger  one,  I  presume,  is 
slill  alive?" 

''  Yes,  t\io  younger  one  is  Lady  Uuthvcn, 
my  wile." 

"Ak!"  said  Kane  Hollmuth. 

He  had  heard  this  bel'oro.  It  was  now 
confirmed.  The  problem  remained  a  prob- 
lem still,  but  he  had  advanced  somewhat 
nearer  lo  a  solution,  lor  the  very  reason  that 
he  had  approached  so  much  nearer  to  the 
one  who  had  called  herself  Inez  Mordaunt. 
This  was  licr  husband.  He  hud  no  doubt 
whatever  of  tho  truth  of  the  intelligeuco 
which  he  was  giving  to  his  visitor 

"One  thing  more.  Sir  Gwyn,"  said  Kane 
Ilellmuth,  "I  callymust  apolugi/.c  for  tho 
trouble  that  I  am  giving  you,  and  1  hope  you 
will  not  suppose  that  I  am  asking  out  of 
nothing  belter  than  idle  eurio.'-iiy.  What  I 
now  wish  to  ask  refers  to  your  own  family — 
your  own  brothers." 

Kane  Ilellmuih  paused.  Again  Sir  Gwyn 
looked  at  him  with  th.it  perplexity  on  his 
face  which  had  already  appeared  there.  The 
two  thus  looked  at  one  another  earnestly. 
Kane  Hellmuth  fell  a  pang  of  sadness  as  he 
looked  at  that  noble  anil  generous  face,  rud 
thought  that  he  might  be  tlie  means  of  n- 
flicting  pain  upon  one  who  did  not  merit  it; 
but  Ids  task  had  to  bo  done,  and  went  on: 

"There  were  throe  of  you,  I  think,"  said 
he;  "  Bruce,  Kane,  and  yourself." 

Si"  (iwyu  bowed  iu  silence.  The  perplex- 
ity of  his  face  was  now  greater  than  over. 

"  Bruce  died  at  home,  I  believe,"  con- 
tinued Kane  Hellmuth,  "and  Kane  died  in 
Paris." 


"  No,"  said  Sir  (Iw^n. 

"  I  have  undcnitood  so." 

"Mr. — ah— llilhuuih,"  said  Sii  Gwyn, 
earnestly.  '■  Tell  mo  truly,  wore  you  ever  ac- 
((uaintod  with  my  brother  Kane?" 

Kane  Hollmuth  hesitated. 

"  Yes,"  said  ho,  slowly,  ''  I  was,  about 
ten  years  ago,  in  I'oris." 

"  Do  you  bolievo  that  he  is  dead  ?  "  asked 
Sir  (iwyn,  sharply  and  eagoily.  "  I  ilon't. 
I  never  did,"  ho  continuod.  "I  t(;ll  )<)u  I 
have  tried  everywhere  to  find  him.  L(;()k 
here,  there's  something  confoundedly  queer 
about  yon,  do  you  know?  odd,  isn't  it?  but 
it  seems  lo  me  that  we've  mot  before,  but 
hang  mo  if  I  can  remember  whore.  I  tell  you 
I've  done  every  thing  to  find  my  brother 
Kane.  I've  advertised.  I've  sent  out  agents. 
I  don't  believe  he's  dead,  and  I  hope  to  meet 
him  yet.  By  Jove!  And,  see  hero,  if  you 
should  ever  got  on  his  track,  tell  him  ihis  from 
me:  Thut  I  am  waitii'g  for  him,  that  I  am 
holding  this  plao(!  for  him,  that  I'd  give  it  all 
up— estate,  title,  all,  for  tho  sake  of  seoing 
him  once  more.  Yes,  by  Heaven!  I  would; 
and  il'  I  only  knew  where  he  was  now  I'd  go 
to  fir.d  him  if  I  had  to  risk  my  life.  I  s^y 
this  to  you  because,  do  you  know,  somehow 
you've  got  a  confoundedly  quocr  look  about 
you,  and,  by  Jove  !  you  remind  mo  of  him 
somehow.  You  don't  happen  to  bo  a  rchilivu 
of  the  family  in  ony  way,  I  suppose." 

The  tone  in  which  Sir  Gwyn  spoke  was 
tho  tone  of  a  big,  honest,  warm-hearted  boy. 
Every  word  went  to  tho  very  heart  of  Kano 
Hellmuth.  He  was  not  prepared  for  this. 
In  the  course  of  his  life  he  had  lost  much  of 
his  fiuth  in  man,  and  had  accustomed  himself 
to  think  of  his  brother  as  one  who  would  be 
plad  to  hear  of  his  death.  He  had  been  try- 
ing  to  make  himself  known  in  a  gradual  way, 
so  as  to  ease  the  blow  which  he  supposed 
would  full  on  his  brother.  Lo !  now,  to  his 
amazement  and  confusion,  his  brother  stood 
there  olfering  to  give  up  all — estates,  title, 
yes,  even  life  itself,  if  ho  could  find  him. 

His  head  saidt  upon  his  breast.  Ho 
struggled  to  keep  down  the  emotion  that  had 
arisen  in  his  soul.  It  was  hard  to  restrain 
himself.  Sir  (iwyn  looked  at  him  in  wonder. 
.\t  len;;ih  Kane  Hellmuth  raised  his  head. 
He  fixed  his  eyes  on  (5wyn  with  a  strange 
meaning.  Then  he  spoke. 
"Gwyn!"  said  he. 
That  was  all. 


:f 


148 


AN   OI'E.V   QUESTIO.V. 


Rir  Owyn  utartcd.  Tlii.>n  all  the  truth  in 
a  moment  burst  upon  him. 

"  Oh,  by  HraTCM8 ! "  he  ciicd.  "  0  Hcav. 
rns  I  Kane  I  Kane  I  Kmio  t  By  Ilviiveiifi ! 
Kane  hiraeclf  I  You  glorious  old  l)oy !  Didn't 
I  know  you  ?  didu't  I  feci  tliut  it  wan 
you?" 

IIo  graopcd  both  of  Kunii'a  hnndH  in  IiIh, 
and  clung  to  them  with  a  fervid,  enthusiu.siic 
grcctini;,  wringing  them,  and  nhuking  them 
over  and  over. 

"  Kane,  you  dear,  glorioua  old  boy,  where 
have  you  been  wandering?  and  why  have  you 
Ktiiycd  away  so  long?  Haven't  you  seen  my 
frantic  advcrtiseraouts,  imploring  you  to  come 
and  get  your  own  ?  Haven't  I  felt  like  a  thief 
for  years,  holding  nil  this  when  you  miglit  be 
wanting  it?  Ah,  dear  old  boy!  1  know 
wluit  you  once  had  to  sulTer.  And  you  might 
liave  let  me  had  a  wonl  from  you.  You  once 
used  to  think  something  of  me  when  I  was  a 
youngrtter.  Don't  you  remember  how  I  used 
to  look  up  to  you  as  the  pride,  and  glory,  and 
boast,  of  Ihc  whole  race  of  Huthvens  ?  You 
mu.it  remember  enough  about  the  youngster 
(iwyn  to  know  that,  wiintcver  his  faults  wore, 
he'd  be  as  true  as  steel  to  you.  Uruce  treated 
you  like  a  devil,  too,  and  I  cursed  him  for  it 
to  his  face;  and  didn't  you  get  my  letter, 
Kane  ?  I  was  only  a  boy  at  school,  and  I 
sent  all  I  had  to  you— my  two  sovereigns — 
all  I  had,  Kane.  It  wasn't  much,  but  I'd 
have  laid  down  my  life  for  you." 

So  Sir  (Jwyn  went  on.  Ho  appeared  to  be 
half  crying,  half  laugliing.  Ho  still  clung  to 
his  brother.  It  was  Iho  cnthu.'tiaatic,  the 
wild  delight  of  a  warm-hearted  boy.  As  for 
Kane,  he  stood  overwhelmed,  lie  trciiil>lcd 
from  head  to  foot,  lie  tore  one  hand  away, 
and  dashed  it  across  his  oyo8. 


CIUrTEU  XXXVI. 


aUTUVKH. 


Tncs,  then,  it  was  that  Kano  Ruthven 
came  back  to  the  homo  of  his  fathers — to 
Kulhven  Towers.  He  was  a  dead  man  no 
longer.  Ho  was  no  more  Ilellmuth,  but 
Kulhven. 

Me  hnd  not  anticipated  such  a  reception. 
He  was  not  prepared  for  such  truth  and 
fideUty — such  an  example  of  a  brother'n  love. 
lie  was   unmanned.     IIo   utood  and  wept. 


Yet  life  sccnicJ  sweeter  now  to  hlra  through 
those  tears. 

"  Dear  boy,"  said  he  at  loi^t,  as  soon  as 
lie  had  recovered  himself  somewhat,  "  don't 
talk  to  me  about  the  c^ttate,  or  tho  title. 
They  are  yourn.  Do  you  think  I  camo  bock 
for  them  ?  They  are  yourH,  ami  they  shall  be 
yours.  I  gave  them  up  years  ago.  I  saw 
your  notices,  but  I  was  not  going  to  como 
buck  here.  Tilings  had  happened  which 
made  wealth  and  rank  of  no  importance,  I 
have  as  much  money  as  I  want.  I  don't  care 
about  a  tide.  You  shall  remain  as  you  aro 
now,  and  so  will  I." 

"I'll  bo  hanged  if  I  will!"  cried  Gwyn. 
"  I  tell  you,  this  estate  atui  title  have  beoa 
bothering  me  out  of  my  life." 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  make  out  a  paper  tntDi* 
ferring  every  thing  to  you." 

"  You  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"  I  will.  Y'ou  don't  know  how  1  am  Bitu< 
ated." 

"  I  swear  you  shan't.  You  aro  tho  head 
of  tho  Ruthven.s,  and  I  glory  in  you,  and  I 
long  to  see  you  in  your  place,  old  boy." 

"No,  (iwyn — my  own  place  is  a  very  dif- 
ferent one.  I  have  lived  my  life.  I  didn't 
conic  back  to  interfere  with  yours." 

"  It's  no  interference.  Como  now,  Kane, 
don't  be  absurd.     It's  all  yours,  you  know," 

"  Very  well,  and  I  hereby  make  it  all  over 
to  you." 

"  I  won't  take  it." 

"  You  must.  I'll  make  out  the  neccs.'ary 
papers,  and  then  go  back  to  my  lair  that  I've 
just  come  out  of" 

"What's  that?  What!"  cried  Gwyn. 
"  Go  back  !  Why,  you  won't  go  back  ?  You 
have  come  home  now  for  {.-ooil,  Kane — haven't 
you?  Go  back?  No,  never!  You  aro  here 
now,  nni'  here  you  must  stay." 

"  Oh,  you  may  bo  sure,  dear  boy,  we'll  sea 
one  another  often  after  this;  '.ml,  for  my  part, 
I  have  a  work  to  accom|)li»u  which  will  re. 
quire  all  my  care  for  some  timo  to  come,  and, 
at  present,  I'm  still  Kane  Hellmuth." 

"  Ilellmuth  !  what  prepo.sterous  nonsense  I 
You're  Sir  Kane  Kiithven  of  Kuthven  Tower-, 
and  you  shall  remain  so." 

"  No,  Gwyn,  my  purpose  is  fixed  and  un- 
alterable.  I  care  nothing  for  sucli  things. 
You  can  enjoy  them.  I  have  as  much  money 
04  I  wish.  I  need  nothing  more.  You  bavo 
your  position,  and  there  is  your  wife." 

"My    wife!"    ezoUlmed    Gwyn.      ••  Ab, 


tu  through 

xs  goon  as 
lat,  "don't 

tlio    tillf. 

camo  back 
icy  Bbnll  be 
j;o.  I  saw 
ig  to  oonio 
neil  which 
ortancc.  I 
I  don't  ctire 
aa  you  arc 

;iicU  Gwyn. 
I  have  buca 

paper  trans- 
sort." 
,w  I  am  situ- 

iiro  the  hcail 

n  you,  and  I 

J  boy." 

is  a  very  dif- 

ro.    I  didn't 

rs." 

9  now,  Kane, 

,  you  know," 

iko  it  all  over 


the  necc8!<nry 
lair  that  I've 

criod  Owyn. 
)  buck  ?  You 
Cnnc — haven't 

You  are  here 

boy,  we'll  »e« 
It,  for  my  part, 
which  will  ro- 
I  to  come,  and, 
nuth." 

rniiH  nonsense  I 
ilhven  Tower-. 


ii 


I  fixed  and  un- 
r  such  thiuRH. 
\n  much  money 
ire.  Vou  have 
ir  wife." 
Gwyn.     "AU, 


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RUTUVEX. 


149 


Kano,  you  little  know  licr.  OIi,  kow  she  will 
rejoice  over  this !  Oh,  she  knows  all  about 
it!  I've  told  her  all.  Oh,  how  ghul  Bessie 
will  be !    Oh,  how  Bessie  will  rejoice  I " 

"Bessie!" 

This  exclamation  burst  forth  from  Kane 
involuntarily.  His  voice  was  harsh  and  grat- 
ing, lie  stood  with  staring  ryes  and  averted 
face.  The  utterance  of  that  one  name — 
"  Bessie" — had  been  sufficient  to  overturn  all 
bis  thoughts,  and  thrust  him  back  into  his 
old  bewilderment  and  gloom.  Like  lightning, 
a  thousand  thouglits  swept  through  his  mind, 
quickened  into  instant  life  by  that  one  name. 

This  revealed  all. 

"  The  false  Inez  who  had  married  his  brother 
was  Bessie.  Bessie  who  ?  Bessie  Mordamit 
— the  friend — of  the  true  Inez;  the  Bessie  to 
whom  she  had  written,  but  who  had  refused 
to  answer  those  letters  of  despair — Bessie ! " 

Gwyn  noticed  the  change. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Kane  ?  "  he  asked, 
anxiously. 

Kane  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Oh,  nothing  I  "  said  he.  "  By  tlic  way — 
what  do  you  mean  by  'Bessie.'  I  thought 
your  wife's  name  was  Inez." 

"  So  it  is,  but  it  is  Bessie  also.  Her  full 
name  is  Inez  Elizabeth  Mordaunt.  She  was 
living  with  the  Wyverncs,  however,  at  Lon- 
don, you  know,  where  I  first  became  acquaint- 
ed with  her,  and  they  all  called  her  Bessie  to 
prevent  confusion,  for  there  was  another  Inez 
— Inez  Wyvcrne — a  distant  relative  of  hers. 
So,  I  knew  her  as  Bessie,  and  I've  called 
her  Bessie  ever  since.  Inez  is  a  pretty  name, 
but  it  seema  unfamiliar  to  me." 

All  this  was  terrible  to  Kano.  It  con- 
firmed what  had  been  told  him.  Inez  Wy- 
verne  was  Inez  Mordaunt.  Bessie  had  takea 
her  place.  Had  Bessie  betrayed  her  ?  Inez 
loved  her  still,  and  trusted  in  her.  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  Bessie  was  a  traitor,  or  had  she  only 
been  mistaken?  But,  then,  Bernul  Mordaunt 
must  Lin",clf  have  received  Bessie  as  his 
daughtc'  . 

Kane  Ruthvon  feared  the  worst.  And 
there  came  to  his  heart  a  sharp  and  sudden 
pang.  If  Bessie  should  prove  iv)  bo  the  trai- 
tor, the  impostor,  whicli  he  now  imagined 
her  to  be,  then  what  wrong  would  have  been 
done  to  this  noble,  this  generous  heart ! 
Hero  was  this  true  and  loyal  8(ml,  this  match- 
less brother,  with  his  faithful  love,  his  un- 
Hulliud   nature,   his  young,   pure  life,  linked 


to  one  whose  character  must  be  terrible. 
Could  he  go  on  further  when  his  path  would 
only  serve  to  darken  this  brother's  life  ?  IIo 
shuddered,  he  half  recoiled.  How  could  ho 
dare  ?  His  brother  had  taken  a  serpent  to 
his  bosom.  Could  he  open  his  brother's  eyes, 
and  sliow  him  all  ? 

Just  at  that  moment,  in  the  midst  of  such 
gloomy  and  such  terrible  thouglits  as  thebo, 
there  came  a  sound  v/hich  penetrated  like  sud- 
den sunshine  through  all  the  clouds  of  sus- 
picion and  terror  that  were  lowering  over  tho 
soul  of  Kane  Ruthven,  a  sudden  sound,  sweet, 
silvery,  musical — a  sound  of  laughter  that 
was  childish  in  its  intonations — a  peal  of 
laughter  -  was  full  of  innocence,  and  gay- 
ety,  and  mirth. 

Then  followed  a  voice — 

"Aha,  you  runaway!  So,  here  you  at-e! 
and  it's  meself  that's  been  the  heart-broken 
wife.  Really,  I  began  to  think  that  you'd 
deserted  me,  so  I  did.  Come,  sir,  give  an  ac- 
count of  yourself.  How  dare  you  leave  mo 
for  a  whole  half-hour ! " 

The  new-comer  suddenly  stopped.  She 
saw  a  stranger  there. 

At  tho  first  sound  of  her  silvery,  musical 
laugh,  Kane  Ruthven  started,  and  looked 
up. 

He  saw  before  him  a  vision  of  exquisite 
loveliness.  It  was  a  young  lady — who  looked 
like  a  very  young  girl,  a  blonde,  with  largo 
eyes  of  a  wonderful  blue,  with  a  face  of  in- 
describable piquancy,  with  golden  hair,  flow- 
ing in  rich  masses  over  her  shoulders,  with  a 
dress  of  some  material  as  light  as  gossamer. 
This  was  the  one  whose  laugh  had  penetrated 
to  his  ears,  who  now  came  lightly  forward 
with  these  words  addressed  to  Gwyn. 

Gwyn,  too,  had  started  at  her  entrance. 
At  the  sight  of  her  the  cloud  that  had  come 
over  his  face,  thrown  there  by  tho  strange 
gloom  of  Kane,  was  instantly  banished,  and  a 
joyous  light  succeeded.  Ho  took  the  lady's 
hand,  and  led  her  forward. 

"  Kane,"  said  he,  "  here  she  is — my  own 
Bessie.  0  Bessie!  who  do  you  think  this 
is?  You'd  never  guess.  It's  my  dear,  long- 
lost  old  boy — my  brother  Kane.'' 

The  hand  that  Gwyn  held  suddenly  closed 
convulsively  around  his;  over  tho  fair  face 
there  shot,  for  an  instant,  an  expression  of 
pain.  Hos^ie  shrank  back  involuntarily,  and 
half  raised  her  nihcr  hand,  as  if  to  her  heart. 
Yet  this  was  only  for  an  inslaiit.     It  passed 


s 


f      ii 


I 


V       I 
t'       i 


1  ? 


Mi 


il . 


150 


AN   OPEX   QUESTION, 


as  suddculy  as  it  l-.aJ  come.  Kane  did  not 
notice  it,  nor  did  Gwyn. 

"  Kane  ! "  exclaimed  Bessie,  in  a  sweet 
and  gentle  voice;  "snrc  then  it's  me  own 
brother  he  is  too,  and  oh,  how  glad  I  am  !  " 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  a  sweet  smile. 
Kane  took  it,  and  the  smile  on  her  face  drove 
away  the  last  vestige  of  his  gloomy  fears. 
All  evil  suspicions  passed  awuy.  lie  saw 
oidy  that  perfect  loveliness  and  that  bewitch- 
ing smile;  he  saw  only  licr  charming  grace 
and  captivating  beauty  ;  he  saw  only  the  wife 
of  Owyn,  and  the  friend  of  Inez. 

He  pressed  her  hand  fervently,  and  in  si- 
lence. 

"  Really,"  said  Bessie,  "  do  you  know, 
Gwynnie,  dearest,  you  gave  nic  an  awful 
shock,  and  I  haven't  got  over  it  yet.  I  was 
BO  awfully  glad,  you  know,  but  it  was  at  the 
same  time  so  awfully  sudden,  you  know  ;  and 
oh,  bow  we've  talked  about  this.  I'm  sure  I 
can  hardly  believe  it  is  so,  and  I'm  sure  it's 
awfully  funny  to  find  a  brother  so  suddenly, 
when  you  never  expected  such  a  thing  at  all 
at  all.  And  oh,  but  it's  the  blessed  thing  to 
think  that  our  brother  Kane  should  turn  up 
after  all,  so  it  is." 

Bhe  looked  at  Kane  as  she  said  this  with 
a  sweet  smile  on  her  face.  Kane  noticed  this, 
and  was  charmed.  IIo  noticed,  also,  the 
slight  "brogue"  that  was  in  her  tone,  whicli, 
intermingled  as  it  was  with  the  idiom  pecu- 
liar to  young  ladies,  seemed  to  him  to  be  very 
charming.  He  believed  in  her  at  once.  Tlie 
sight  of  that  face  was  enough.  With  such  a 
being  suspicion  had  simply  nothing  to  do. 
Slie  herself  was  beyond  all  suspicion.  In  her 
face,  her  manner,  her  tone,  he  could  see  in- 
finite possibilities  for  love,  for  loyalty,  for 
sociability,  for  friendship,  for  fun,  for  droll- 
ery, for  kindliness,  and  for  gracious  self- 
Burrcndor  ;  such  a  one  seemed  a  fit  compan- 
ion for  Inez  or  for  Gwyn  ;  but  to  associate 
her,  even  in  thought,  with  such  foul  natures 
as  Kevin  Magrath,  seemed  an  unholy  thing. 

And  so  it  was  that  Kane  Kuthven  lirt^t 
met  Bessie. 

The  expression  of  Kane's  face  was  usually 
an  austere  one.  His  dense  growth  of  crisp 
hair,  his  bushy  eyebrows,  his  heavy  and 
somewhat  neglected  beard,  his  piercing  eyes, 
liis  tcirugated  brow,  and,  added  to  all  these, 
the  hard  outline  of  his  features,  all  combined 
to  give  him  a  certain  saturnine  grinmess, 
trhich  wo\dd  have  been  repellent  had  it  not 


been  for  the  lurking  tcnderiicss  that  shono 
in  his  glance — a  tenderness  which  was  per- 
ccptible  enough  to  any  one  who  took  Tiinro 
than  a  superficial  observation.  On  the  pres- 
ent occasion,  the  look  with  which  he  regarded 
Bessie  had  all  of  this  tenderness,  and  noth- 
ing of  this  grinmess  and  austerity;  it  was  a 
look  such  as  an  auehoiite  might  give  to 
some  child  visitor  straying  near  his  cell, 
whose  approach  might  have  broken  in  upon 
his  solenju  meditations.  To  Kane  Ruthven 
there  seemed  about  Bessie  a  sweetness,  and 
light,  and  sunshine,  which  forced  him  for  a 
time  to  come  forth  out  of  his  usual  gloom. 

"  Sure,  and  it's  quite  like  the  parable  of 
the  prodigal  son  entirely,"  said  Bessie;  "  only 
of  course,  you  know,  I  don't  mean  to  say  that 
you  were  a  prodigal  son,  brother  Kane;  and 
then,  too,  in  the  parable,  it  was  the  younger 
son  that  was  the  prodigal,  but  you're  the 
older,  so  you  are ;  now  isn't  he,  Gwynnie, 
dearest  ?  But,  'deed,  and  it's  no  matter  which, 
for  it's  only  the  joy  over  the  return  that  I 
was  thinking  of,  so  it  was,  and  sure  we'll  kill 
the  fatted  calf  and  be  merry,  as  they  did  in 
the  parable.  1  feel."  she  added,  with  an 
absurd  look  of  perplexity,  "  that  my  compar- 
ison is  hopelessly  ndxcd  up,  but  then  my  in- 
tentio    )  are  honorable,  you  know." 

As  Bessie  said  this,  she  stole  her  hand 
toward  that  of  Gwyn,  and  inserted  it  con- 
fidingly in  his,  quite  in  the  manner  of  a  fond 
young  bride,  who  is  confident  of  the  attach- 
ment of  her  husband,  and  upon  whose  mar- 
riage still  exists  siunething  of  the  bloom  of 
the  honeymoon.  Gwyn,  on  his  part,  did  not 
fail  to  reciprocate  this  tender  advance,  aiul 
his  hand  clasped  hers  lovingly,  and  the  two 
stood  thus  opposite  Kane,  indulging  in  this 
pardonable  little  bit  of  sentimentality,  or 
spooneyisra,  or  whatever  else  the  reader  may 
choose  to  call  it,  quite  regnrdless  of  his  pres- 
cnec.  Upon  Kane,  however,  this  littl.?  ac- 
tion, which  was  not  unobserved  by  him,  did 
not  produce  any  unpleasant  cfi'ect,  but  rather 
the  opposite.  It  seemed  to  him  to  be  a 
beautiful  picture — the  young  husband,  with 
his  frank,  open,  gentle,  and  noble  face;  the 
fair  young  bride,  with  her  fragile  beauty,  and 
the  golden  glory  of  her  flowing  hair — these 
two  thus  standing  side  by  si<le,  with  hands 
clasped  in  holy  love  and  tenderness. 

Kane  felt  softened  more  and  more,  and 
this  scene  roused  within  his  mind  memories 
drawn  from  his  own  past ;    memories  of  a 


i  1 


RUTHVEN. 


151 


mt  shono 

waa  ppr- 

ook  more 

the  prcs- 

c  regarded 

mid  notli- 

it  was  a 

It  give  to 

r   his   cell, 

en  in  upon 

0  Rut  liven 

etni'ss,  and 

him  lor  a 

gloom. 

parable  of 

sic;  "only 

to  say  that 

Kane:  and 

he  younger 

you're   the 

,  Gwynnie, 

attcr  which, 

'turn  that  I 

ire  we'll  kill 

they  did  in 

id,  with   an 

my  conipar- 

then  my  in- 

lie  her  hand 
■rted  it  con- 
icr  of  a  fond 
'  the  attaeh- 

who.-=e  mar- 
he  bloom  of 
part,  did  not 
[idvanco,  and 

and  the  two 
Iging  in  this 
mentality,  or 
e  render  may 
s  of  his  pres- 
hia  littlj  ac- 
l  by  him,  did 
et,  but  rather 
lim  to  be  a 
msband,  with 
blc  face;  the 
e  be;iuty,  and 
^  hair — thcso 
;,  with  hands 
icsp. 

nd  more,  and 
ind  memories 
eraorics  of  a 


time  when  he,  too,  like  Gwyn,  had  one  who 
was  as  dear  to  hira  as  this  fair  young  creature 
was  to  his  brother;  memories  of  a  time  when 
the  touch  of  a  gentle  hand  stealing  toward 
his  would  quicken  his  heart's  pulsation,  and 
send  through  hira  a  thrill  of  rapture.  Those 
memories  had  never  been  lost,  they  liad  lived 
through  all  the  wjary  years,  they  formed  a 
torment  to  him  in  •  is  desolation  ;  but  never 
had  they  been  roufad  to  such  life,  and  with 
such  vividness,  as  at  this  moment,  when  Bes- 
sie made  this  half-unconscious  movement  of 
confiding  tenderness.  The  happiness  of  Gwyn 
only  served  to  remind  him  more  poignantly 
than  usual  of  all  that  he  had  lost,  and  a 
drear  sense  of  solitude  came  across  his  soul — 

"  Oh,  for  the  touch  of  a  crenUe  haiul, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still." 

The  sight  of  his  brother's  happiness  also 
had  another  effect.  It  elicited  not  envy,  for 
envy  was  a  stranger  to  his  heart,  but  rather 
a  generous  sympathy,  and  a  more  tender  re- 
gard both  for  this  brother  and  this  new- found 
sister.  Inez  was  one  sister,  and  here  stood 
another  as  fair  as  she,  and,  to  all  outward 
seeming,  as  gentle,  as  pure,  and  as  good. 
The  sight  of  these  two  only  served  t  strength- 
en his  firm  resolve  already  made,  to  leave  his 
brother  hero  in  possession  of  that  estate  and 
title  for  which  he,  in  his  present  mode  of  life, 
had  no  need,  and  of  which  his  nature  would 
not  permit  him  to  deprive  him. 

Tiie  loving  and  tender  reception  of  Kane 
by  these  two  was  met  on  his  part  by  a  grate- 
ful reciprocity  of  feeling;  the  hearts  of  .all  of 
them  were  opened  to  one  another;  and  an  in- 
terchange of  confidences  took  place,  which  was 
unreserved  on  the  part  of  Gwyn,  and  only 
limited  on  the  part  of  Kane  by  the  nature  of 
those  griefs  which  he  sufTercd,  and  which 
could  not  be  lightly  spoken  of.  lie  laid  great 
stress  on  his  wanderings,  and  particularly  on 
his  adventures  in  South  Afriea  in  search  of 
diamonds.  His  allusions  to  this  were  made 
with  the  intention  of  letting  Gwyn  sec  that 
he  had  ample  means  of  his  own,  and  of  com- 
municating to  him,  in  a  delicate  way,  the  fact 
that  he  had  no  intention  whatever  of  taking 
any  steps  to  deprive  him  of  the  estate. 

But  the  chief  topic  of  conversation  re- 
ferred to  times  far  beyond  this,  and  to  things 
which  they  had  in  common,  (iwyn  had  much 
to  say  about  his  early  boyhood  and  his  re- 
membrances of  Kane.  He  brought  forward  a 
thousand  things  which  had  faded  out  of  his 


I  brother's  recollection,  but  were  recognized  aa 
Gwyn  mentioned  them.  About  these  (Jwyn 
talked  with  a  zest,  and  a  simple,  honest  de- 
light, which  was  very  touching.  His  whole 
tone  showed  that,  in  the  days  of  his  early 
life,  he  had  looked  up  to  this  brother  Kane 
with  all  the  enthusiastic  admiration  of  a  gen- 
erous boy.  It  was  also  quite  evident  that 
this  enthusiastic  admiration  had  lasted  be- 
yond his  boyhood  and  into  his  maturcr  years. 
He  seemed  to  have  considered  his  brother 
Kane  the  hcau  ideal  of  perfect  manhood,  and 
one  who  was  the  best  model  for  his  own  imi- 
tation. At  the  same  time  he  regarded  his 
own  efforts  to  imitate  him  as  usele«s,  and  the 
honest  humility  of  his  allusions  to  his  own 
inferiority  was  almost  pathetic,  especially 
when  his  noble  face  and  his  chivahic  senti- 
ments were  so  manifest,  and  seemed  (o  speak 
so  plainly  of  a  character  and  a  nature  which 
could  not  suffer  from  a  comparison  with  even 
that  idealized  Kane  which  ho  had  in  his 
mind. 

The  minuteness  and  the  accuracy  of  Gwyn's 
recollections  surprised  Kane,  who  had  forgot- 
ten many  of  the  occurrences  mentioned.  They 
referred  chiefly  to  Kane's  last  year  at  home, 
when  Gwyn  was  a  little  fellow  and  Kane  a 
young  man.  The  incidents  were  very  trifling 
in  themselves,  but  at  the  time  they  had  ap- 
peared wonderful  to  the  boy  ;  and  now,  even 
when  he  had  become  a  man,  they  seemed  the 
most  important  events  of  his  life.  It  was  not 
long  afterward  that  Kane's  misfortunes  had 
occurred,  and  Gwyn  showed,  without  going 
into  particulars,  but  merely  by  a  few  eloquent 
statements  of  facts,  that,  at  the  time  when 
Kane  was  so  desolate,  there  was  one  loving 
heart  that  was  sore  wrung  foi'  him,  and  one 
loyal  soul  that  would  have  faced  even  death 
itself  if  it  could  have  done  him  good. 

Bessie  bore  herself  admirably  d-ring  the 
conversation.  She  did  not  thrust  .k. sell' for- 
ward  too  much ;  nor  did  she,  on  the  other 
hand,  subside  into  silence.  A  few,  well-chosen 
remarks,  now  and  then  thrown  in,  served  to 
show  that  she  was  full  of  the  deepest  interest 
in  all  that  was  said,  and  occasional  timely 
questions  to  one  or  the  other  of  the  brothers 
served  to  driiw  forth  a  fuller  explanation  of 
the  subject  to  which  the  question  referred. 
Moreover,  all  the  time  there  was  in  her  ex- 
pressive face  such  eager  curiosity,  such  pr  >■ 
found  interest,  such  total  surrender  of  self  to 
the  one  who  might  be  speaking,  that  her  very 


152 


AN   OPEX  QUESTION. 


^  !|i 


■  n: 


silence  was  more  eloquent  than  any  words 
could  have  been. 

Bossie  was  also  gentle  and  aflectionate. 
Kane  was  her  brother  now.  With  a  frank- 
ness that  was  charming  she  at  once  began  to 
put  herself  on  the  footing  of  a  sister  toward 
liim ;  and  proeeede'l,  not  abruptly,  Ijut  deli- 
cately and  by  degr"cs,  to  insinuate  herself 
further  into  confidential  terms  of  intercourse. 
At  first  it  was  Brother  Kane,  occasionally 
dropped  as  if  by  accident ;  then  the  familiar 
name  was  repeated  more  frequently.  Then 
she  called  him  simply  Kane.  Once,  when  her 
sympathies  seemed  unusually  strong,  she  ex- 
claimed, "  0  dear  brother  Kane !  it's  heart- 
broke  you  must  have  been  about  that  same ! " 
Finally,  when  they  bade  one  another  good- 
night, she  held  forth  her  cheek  in  the  most 
childish  and  innocent  and  sisterly  manner  in 
the  world,  and,  as  he  kis.sed  her,  she  said  : 

"  Good-night,  dear  Kane  ;  good-night,  and 
pleasant  dreams." 


*l     I', 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
I 

HUSDAKD    AND     WIFE, 

Kane  Ruthven  had  come  here  to  Ruthven 
Towers  on  an  errand.  That  errand  was  two- 
fold :  It  referred,  first,  to  his  lost  wife  Clara ; 
and,  secondly,  to  his  injured  sister  Inez.  He 
had  come  here  with  these  things  foremost  in 
his  mind,  and  all  his  thoughts  turned  toward 
a  dark  mystery.  But  his  arrival  here  had 
produced  a  change.  The  unexpected  recep- 
tion by  Gwyn,  the  meeting  with  Bessie,  the 
discovery  of  this  loyal,  true,  and  noble-hearted 
brother,  with  his  fair,  and  gentle,  and  tender 
wife,  all  tended  to  expel  the  darker  feelings 
from  his  soul.  The  first  sound  of  Bessie's 
laugh  had  been  to  him  what  the  harp-notes 
of  David  had  once  been  to  Saul ;  and,  though 
the  dark  clouds  might  again  roll  over  him, 
yet  he  none  the  less  enjoyed  this  brief  sun- 
shine. For  that  day,  at  any  rate,  he  did  not 
choose  to  introduce  the  subject  of  Inez,  and 
he  gave  himself  up  to  the  spirit  of  the  occa- 
sion. Once  more  he  came  back  to  the  old 
world  which  he  had  left ;  and,  on  becoming  a 
Ruthven  again,  he  allowed  his  mind  to  dwell 
upon  the  distant  past.  That  night  ho  took 
up  his  abode  in  the  home  of  his  fathers,  and 
slept  at  Ruthven  Towers. 


The  honest  and  unaffected  joy  of  Gwyn 
over  his  brother's  return  could  not  be  re- 
pressed, but  was  manifest  after  they  had 
parted  for  the  night,  and  while  he  and  Bessie 
But  talking  over  the  wonderful  events  of  the 
day. 

"Isn't  it  the  most  wonderful  and  the 
jollicst  thing  you  ever  heard  of,  Bessie, 
dear?"  he  said;  "but,  oli,  you  haven't  the 
faintest  idea  of  what  he  used  to  be !  He  was 
the  most  magnificent  swell  —  the  bravest, 
boldest,  handsomest,  most  glorious  man  I 
ever  saw.  He  neglects  himself,  and  is  reck- 
less about  Ilia  life ;  but  you  can  easily  judge 
yet,  from  his  present  appearance,  what  he 
may  once  have  been.  As  it  was,  he  was  a 
great,  bright  vision  in  my  life,  that  I've  never 
forgotten.  His  ruin  was  a  great,  dark  thun- 
der-cloud, and  I  swear  I've  never  got  over 
that !  I  almost  broke  my  heart  about  it,  and 
I  used  to  imagine  a  thousand  things  that  I 
would  do  for  him  when  I  got  older.  And 
then  I've  never  given  him  up,  you  know  that ; 
I  told  your  poor  father  that.  I  always  hoped 
he  would  turn  up,  and  here  he  is  at  last.  But 
he's  an  odd  sort  of  a  fellow.  He  a' ways  was 
the  soul  of  honor  and  generosity ;  and  in  this 
he  is  the  same  still,  only  perhaps  even  more 
so.  I've  already  told  him  how  I  searched  for 
him,  and  how  bad  I  had  felt  all  along  at  keep- 
ing the  title  and  estates  while  they  were  his. 
Whereupon,  what  do  you  think  he  said? 
Why,  he  declared  that  he  wouldn't  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  them;  but,  of  course,  he'll 
have  to.  I'll  make  him.  lie's  suffered 
enough,  poor  old  boy  !  from  his  family.  All 
I  want  is  to  see  him  have  his  own.  He'll 
have  to  take  Ruthven  Towers,  and  bo  Sir 
Kane.  Plain  Gwyn  Ruthven's  enough  for  me, 
especially  so  long  as  I  have  my  little  Bcfsie 
with  me." 

During  these  last  words  a  cloud  had  come 
over  Bessie's  brow,  which,  however,  Gwyn 
did  not  perceive.  As  he  ended,  he  turned 
fondly  toward  her,  and  kissed  her  lovingly. 

Bessie  smiled. 

"So  he's  going  to  be  Sir  Kane  Ruthven, 
and  you're  only  Mr.  Ruthven,  after  this,"  said 
Bessie,  slowly;  "and  he's  going  to  ti.ke  up 
his  abode  here  on  his  own  estates,  and  Ruth- 
ven Towers  is  all  his  own  entirely,  and  we're 
intruders,  so  we  are.  Well — well,  but  it's  a 
queer  world  we  live  in,  so      "s." 

As  Bessie  said  this,  ine  forced  smile 
passed  off,  and  the  cloud  came  back  to  her 


L  .It 


of  Gwyn 

ot  bo  rc- 

tliey  had 

ind  nessio 

nts  of  the 

and    iho 

:)f,    Bessie, 

aveii't  the 

lie  was 

bravest, 

)us   man   I 

d  is  rec'k- 

■asily  judge 

what  ho 

he  was  a 

t  I've  never 

dark  thun- 

cr  got  over 

bout  if,  and 

ings  that  I 

)lder.     And 

Icnow  that ; 

Iways  hoped 

It  last.    But 

cUvays  was 

and  in  this 

p  even  more 

scarciied  for 

long  at  keep- 

icy  were  his. 

k    he  said? 

u't  have  any 

course,  he'll 

[e's    suffered 

family.    All 

own.     He'll 

and   be  Sir 

longh  for  nie, 

little  Befsie 

ud  had  come 
tvever,  Gwyn 
3,  he  turned 
r  lovingly. 

[ine  Ruthvcn, 
er  this,"  said 
;  to  tiiko  up 
19,  and  lluth- 
ly,  and  we're 
ill,  but  it's  a 

forced    pmile 
back  to  her 


HUSBAND   AND    WIFE. 


L53 


face.  But  (!wyu  was  taken  up  with  his  Oivu 
pleasant  thoughts,  and  did  not  notice  her. 

"Yes,"  ho  exclaimed,  "'the  king  shall 
come  to  his  own  again.'  Hurrah!  Kane 
swears  he  won't  take  it,  b-.t  I  swear  ho  shall. 
And  now  we'll  see  who'll  win." 

"Oh,  sure,  he'll  take  it  fast  enough,"  s.iid 
Bessie,  gloomily.  "  Xo  man  ever  lived  that 
would  refuse  it — and  if  it's  his — it's  his,  so  it 
is." 

"Yes;  but  you  know  he  really  wouldn't 
take  it  if  I  didn't  make  him,"  said  Gwyn; 
"  and  I'm  going  to  make  him." 

Bessie  was  silent  for  some  time.  This 
was  so  unusual  a  thing  with  her  that  Gwyn 
at  length  noticed  it,  and  looked  at  her  smil- 
ingly and  pleasantly.  Her  head  was  half 
turned,  so  that  he  could  not  see  her  face,  and 
therefore  did  not  observe  the  slight  frown  of 
her  usually  serene  brow,  or  the  compressed 
lips,  that  generally  were  fixed  in  so  sweet  a 
"?mile.  But  serenity  and  smiles  were  gone 
now 

"Isn't  it  awfully  jolly  ?  "  cried  Gwyn,  en- 
thusiastically. 

"Awfully,"  said  Bessie,  while  her  little 
hands  clutched  each  other  convulsively,  and 
a  deeper  frown  came  over  her  brow. 

"  It's  almost  too  good,  to  get  old  Kane 
back,"  said  Gwyn,  in  the  same  voice.  "I 
Bwear  I  can  hard'y  believe  it  yet !  " 

Bessie  made  no  reply  for  some  time.  A 
severe  struggle  was  going  on  within  her.  At 
length  she  regained  her  self-control  altogether, 
and  turned  her  face  around.  Once  more  her 
brow  was  serene,  and  the  old  familiar  stamp 
of  her  sweet  smile  was  on  her  curved  lips. 

"Oh,  yes,  Gwyimie,  darling,"  said  Bessie; 
"  it's  the  awfullest  jolliest  thing  I  ever  heard 
of,  so  it  is ;  and  that  dear,  darling,  old  Kane, 
so  splendid  a  man!  really,  he's  just  like 
Olympian  Jove,  entirely,  so  he  is ;  and  so  he's 
Kir  Kane,  is  he?  and  you're  only  Mr.  Ruth- 
vcn, and  I'm  not  Lady  Ruthvcn  at  all,  but 
only  plain  Mrs.  Ruthvcn.  How  very,  very 
funny,  is  it  not,  Gwynnie,  darling?  " 

Gwyn  lAughed  aloud;  not  so  much  at  the 
funny  idea  that  Bessie  had  pointed  out  to 
him,  but  rather  out  of  the  joy  of  his  heart 
over  his  brother's  return. 

"  Oh,  it  is  very,  very  funny,  it  is,  entirely," 
said  Bessie ;  "  and  so  we'll  have  to  quit  Ruth- 
vcn Towers,  and  Sir  Kane  will  remain  in  pos- 
session." 

"Oh,  yes,"  cried  Gwyn,  "he'll  have  to  do 


it ;  of  course,  the  dear  old  boj".  He'll  make 
no  end  of  a  row  about  it,  you  know ;  but  he'll 
huve  to  do  it.  Ua,  ha!  isn't  it  jolly?  But 
we'll  be  close  by  one  another  always,  that's 
one  comfort." 

"How  is  that,  Gwynnie,  darling?"  asked 
Bessie,  in  her  softest  tone.  "  How  can  we 
always  be  close  by  one  another  if  we  have  to 
leave  Ruthvcn  Towers  ?  Sorrow  a  one  of  me 
knows  at  all,  at  all." 

"  Why,  of  course,  yen  know,  you  little 
goose,  we'll  go  and  live  at  Mordaunt  Manor." 

"0  Gwynnie  !"  exclaimed  Bessie,  fixing 
her  eyes  mournfully  upon  her  husband,  and 
speaking  in  tones  of  the  utmost  reproach — 
"  0  Gwynnie  !  Mordaunt  Manor." 

"  By  Jove  !  "  exclaimed  Gwyn,  "  my  own 
little  pet,  I  really  forgot  your — your  dislike, 
and  all  that." 

"  And  pup — pup — poor — did — did — did — 
dear  pup — pup — pup — pa  !  scarce  cold  in  his 
grave.  How  can  I  go  back  ?  "  sobbed  Bes- 
sie ;  "  and  you  know  how  sad  it  was,  and  how 
hard  it  is  to  avoid  giving  way.  0  Gwynnie! 
how  could  I  ever  expect  such  a  thing  from 
you ! " 

At  th's  Gwyn  looked  unutterably  shocked 
and  distressed.  He  folded  her  in  his  arms 
— he  swore  and  vowed  that  he  did  not  mean 
what  she  supposed  ;  that  there  was  no  neces- 
sity to  leave  Ruthvcn  Towers  yet,  for  a  long 
time,  and,  even  when  they  did,  they  need  not 
go  to  Mordaunt  Manor.  They  could  live  in 
London,  Paris,  anywhere,  in  a  hundred  other 
places.  Bessie  gradually  allowed  herself  to 
become  mollifiea  and  at  length  seemed  qiiitc 
herself  iigain. 

"But  won't  it  be  awfully  funny,  Gwynnie 
dear  ?  "  she  said.  "  I'll  have  to  support  you, 
won't  I?  Sure  it's  turn  and  turn  about  it'll 
be,  so  it  will." 

Gwyn  laughed  at  this  in  his  usual  up- 
roarious fashion. 

"  Sure,"  said  Bessie,  thoughtfully,  "  all 
this  reminds  me  of  a  thing  that  I've  some- 
times  thought  of.  It  used  to  seem  impossi- 
ble, but  now  sure  there's  no  knowing,  and  I 
don't  know  but  that  it'll  be  the  next  thing 
that'll  happen,  so  it  will ;  and,  if  so,  then 
good-by,  say  I,  not  only  to  Ruthveu  Towers, 
but  also  to  Mordaunt  Manor." 

At  this  Gwyn  started  and  stared  at  Bessie 
in  amazement. 

"  What  do  Tou  mean  ?  "  he  asked, 

"  Sure  I      ..in  what  I  say." 


HI 


154 


AX   OI'EX   QUKSTIO.N" 


1     I 


mm 


i  \ 


ij 


M 


( 

jVli 

r 

1 

1! 

.1 

4 

1 

i;    il 
■     ;l 
\     1 

;.  .j 

"  How  call  wc  bid  gooil  by  to  Moiil.'tunt 
Miinor  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  pump  way  that  we're  going  to 
bid  good-by  to  RiitlivcMi  Towers." 

"  Oh,  nonsense!  Wiiy,  iny  elder  brother 
has  conic  home.  You  havoii'i  any  elder  broth- 
er, you  know,  you  little  goose." 

"  No,  bat  what  prevents  mo  from  having 
nn  elder  sister?  "  said  Rossie,  looking  earnest- 
ly at  her  husband. 

"An  elder  sister !"  cried  Piwyn,  in  new 
amazement. 

"  .Just  that ;  it's  that  entirely  what  I  mean, 
EO  it  is,"  said  Bessie,  "and  sorrow  the  thing 
else  it  is,  at  all  at  all ;  and  there  you  have  it. 
Oh,  really,  Owynnie  darling,  you  needn't  be- 
gin to  smile.  You've  done  enough  laughing 
for  to-day  ;  an  ',  tliis'll  liclp  you  to  feel  a  little 
more  serious,  so  it  will.  1  suppose  poor,  dear 
papa  could  never  have  mentioned  it  to  you," 
continued  Bessie,  with  a  sigh,  "  but,  no  won- 
der, when  he  was  so  very,  very  ill." 

"Ton  my  life  I"  exclaimed  (Iwyn,  "I 
haven't  the  faintest  idea  what  you're  driving 
at.  You  have  to  explain  yourself  more,  Bes- 
sie dearest,  only  you  mustn't  make  your  poor 
little  head  ache  about  nothing." 

"  Oh,  never  mind  my  poor  little  head,"  said 
Bessie ;  "  there's  cnougli  in  this  to  make  more 
heads  ache  than  mine.  Only  I  do  wish  poor, 
dear  piipa  had  explained  it  all  to  you.  I  hate 
80  to  make  explanations.  But  there's  no 
help  for  it.  Well,  you  know,  (Iwynnie  dear- 
est, poor,  dear  papa  had  two  dangliters — one 
Clara  and  the  other  Inez." 

"  But  Clara's  dead,"  cried  Gwyn. 

Bessie  shook  her  head. 

"  Nobody  over  knew  about  her  lieath,  at 
any  rate;  she's  dead  in  just  the  same  way 
that  your  brotlier  Kane  was  dead." 

"What!"  cried  Gwyn  — "  wljat  makes 
everybody  say  so,  then?  And  your  fatlier, 
he  gave  her  up  as  dead,  I've  heard  him 
speak  about  the  dear  child  that  he  had  lost." 

"Sure  enough,"  said  Bessie,  "he  did 
that  same.  Tliis  sister  Clara  disappe:ired 
when  I  was  a  bit  of  a  cliild,  and,  of  course, 
you  know,  Gwyimic,  it  certainly  is  pos- 
sible, and  perhaps  even  likely,  that  she  is 
dead;  but,  at  the  same  time,  there  is  no  cer- 
tainty of  that,  at  all  at  all,  not  the  least  in 
life.  You  sec,  she  was  sent  off  to  a  school  in 
France,  and  while  there  she  made  n  runaway 
match  with  some  adventurer  ;  and  that's  how 
it  was.     Well,  there  was  a  will,  ami  there  was 


a  guardian,  and  the  will  arranged  that,  if  ever 
citlier  of  the  dauglitcs  married  without  the 
consent  of  the  guardian,  she  could  be  dis- 
owned, or  something.  Well,  poor  papa  was 
supposed  to  be  dead,  and  poor,  dear  guar- 
dy  didn't  like  the  match,  and  so,  I  sup. 
pose,  ho  treated  them  rather  cruelly,  for  she 
disappeared,  and  was  given  out  as  dead,  and 
that's  all  I  know  about  it,  you  know.  So, 
you  know,  I've  often  thought  that  poor,  dear, 
darling  Clara  might  yet  be  alive — and  oh,  how 
nicfully  glad  I  should  bo  to  see  her  ! — and  she 
may  come  and  claim  Mordaunt  Hall,  you 
know  ;  and  then,  you  see,  Gwyniiie  darling, 
we'll  be  left  to  our  own  resources  entirely." 

"  Oh,  really  now,  Bessii^  see  here,  now," 
said  Gwyn,  "  this  is  all  very  difloicut,  you 
know — a  dinVreut  thing  entirely.  Oh,  she's 
not  alive — no — no — depend  upon  it,  she's  not 
alive — no,  nothing  of  the  kind — why,  it's  all 
nonsense,  yo\i  know." 

"  But  wouldn't  it  bo  awfully  funny  if  she 
were  to  turn  up,  after  all,  alive  and  well,  and 
come  to  take  possession  of  Mordaunt  Man- 
or?" 

"  Preposterous  !  "  exclaimed  Gwyn.  "Why, 
Bessie  love,  you  haven't  got  a  ghost  of  a 
foundation  for  all  this." 

"No,  darling,  nor  had  you  any  foundation 
more  than  this  for  your  belief  in  the  life  of 
dear  Kane,  yet  you  always  believed  he  would 
eonie — didn't  you,  dailing?" 

(jwyn  was  silent. 

"  And  so,  do  you  know,  Gwynnie,  I  really 
have  always  had  a  firm  belief  that  some  day 
my  poor,  dear,  darling  sister  would  turn  up — 
and  wouldn't  that  bo  funny?" 

"  Oil,  but,  you  know,  Bessie,  you  see  this 
is  a  different  sort  of  thing  altogether.  Oh, 
qi.ite!" 

"  But  isn't  it  awfully  fimny,  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"And  now,  Gwynnie,  I've  got  another 
thing  to  tell  you,  and  it's  very,  very  funny, 
too — sure  and  it's  getting  to  be  the  funniest 
thing  I  ever  knew — all  this  is — it  is  entirely." 

"  What  do  you  mean  now  ?  "  asked  Gwyn, 
curiously,  wondering  what  new  revelation 
Bessie  might  make. 

"Sure  and  it's  this,"  said  Bessie  "  Your 
brother  Kane  was  married,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  know  that,  of  course." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  name  of  the 
lady  ?  " 

"  Never." 


IIUSBAN'D   AND   WIFE. 


155 


Imt,  if  ever 

■illiout  the 

iilil  be  d'lM- 

pnpii  wns 

(ii'iu-  Ruar- 

so,  I   sup- 

lly,  for  slu> 

3  (lead,  anil 

know.     So, 

p'lor,  dear, 

(nd  oil,  how 

! — .11  id  she 

IIsiU,   you 

lie  diiirmir, 

entirely." 

liin-e,  now," 

ifiereiit,  you 

y.     Oh,  ulie'a 

I  it,  pile's  not 

-why,  it's  all 

funny  if  she 

lid  well,  and 

)rdiiunt  Miiii- 

HJwyn.  "Why, 
ghost  of  a 

ny  foundation 
n  the  life  of 
jved  he  would 


yiinie,  I  really 
hat  some  day 
)uld  turn  up — 

I,  you  see  this 
;ogethcr.     Oh, 


;  got  another 
ry,  very  funny, 
e  the  funniest 
-it  is  entirely." 
"  asked  Owyn, 
lew   revelation 

iessie     "  Your 
I  know." 
course." 
iianio  of   tho 


"  Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  who  eho  was, 
and  you  must  bo  iireparcd  for  a  surprise,  so 
you  must.  The  lady  that  your  brother  Kane 
lluthvcn  marric.l  was  my  own  elder  sister, 
Clara  Jlordauiit ! " 

At  this  Gwyn  aetually  bounded  from  his 
chair. 

"  I  don't  believe  it  I  "  he  eried. 

"  It's  the  truth  I'm  telling,"  said  Hcssio, 
plaeidly.  "  My  dear  guardy  was  hers  also ; 
it  was  Mr.  Wyvcnic  that  you've  heard  me 
talk  about,  and  he  told  me  all  about  it.  And 
oh,  but  tho  dear  man  had  the  sore  heart  af- 
terward ;  really  it  was  very,  very  sad,  Gwynnie 
dear,  to  see  how  he  tried  to  find  poor,  dear 
Clara,  so  as  to  make  amends.  He  made  that 
last  journey  to  Franco  for  the  purpose  of 
making  a  final  seareli." 

Some  more  conversation  followed  about 
this.  (Jwyii  liad  many  inquiries  to  make 
about  Mr.  Wyveriie  and  Clara  before  he  could 
feel  satisfied.  But  Bessie's  answers  were  so 
clear  th;it  there  was  no  room  for  doubt  left 
in  his  mind. 

"  And  so,  Gwynnie  dearest,"  said  Bessie, 
laying  her  hand  lovingly  upon  that  of  her 
li;!sband,  and  bending  her  golden  head  near 
to  his  till  her  forehead  rested  on  his  shoulder, 
"you  see,  Clara  was  really  dear  Kane's  wife, 
and  I  dare  say  she  is  still  alive,  and  wouldn't 
it  bo  funny  if  it  should  turn  out  that  dear 
Kane  had  come  here  on  lier  business  as  well 
as  his  own?  " 

(iwyn  had  begun  to  caress  the  lovely  head 
that  was  leaning  on  his  shoulder,  but  at  this 
he  stopped,  and  a  sudden  look  of  pain  flashed 
across  his  face.     But  it  passed  away  instant- 

"Pooh!"  said  he.  "Kane  hasn't  any 
secrets  from  me.  If  his  wife  was  living, 
he'd  have  told  me." 

"  (>h,  of  course,  but  you  see,  dear,  he's 
hardly  had  time  yet.  I  dare  say  he'll  tell  you 
to-morrow,  or  next  week.  He'll  break  it  very, 
very  gradually,  of  course.  Besides,  he  wouldn't 
like  to  mention  it  before  me." 

At  this,  the  gloom  came  over  Gwyn'a  face 
once  more. 

"  By  Jove  !  Bessie,"  said  he,  "  you  don't 
know  what  you're  saying," 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  this  should 
not  be  80,"  said  Bessie. 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  it  makes  him  seem  like — 
like— like  an  underhanded  sort  of  a  fellow." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I  didn't  mean  to  hint  at 


any  thing  of  that  sort  about  dear  Kano.  It's 
your  own  fancy,  Gwynnie  dear." 

Gwyn  frowned,  and  sat  in  thought. 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,"  said  Bessie,  "  you 
can't  deny  that  we're  both  likely  to  be  pau- 
pers." 

Gwyn  drew  a  long  breath,  and  was  silent. 

"  By  paupers  I  mean,  of  course,  depend- 
ants on  others,  and  that  I  hate,  even  when 
it's  my  own  sister.  If  I  were  not  married,  it 
would  bo  dift'erent,  but  a  married  woman 
ought  to  depend  on  her  husband." 

"Oil,  nonsense,  you  little  goose!"  said 
Gwyn,  hurriedly;  "this  is  all  nonsense;  but, 
even  if  it  were  so,  I  can  take  care  of  you, 
you  poor,  little,  precious  darling." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  how." 

"  Why,  I'll— I'll— I'll  go  into  the  array,  of 
course." 

"  I  never  could  bear  that,  dear,"  said  Bes- 
sie, with  a  shudder.  "  It's  too — too  danger- 
ous. Besides,  darling,  do  you  think  the  pay 
of  an  officer  is  enough  to  support  a  wife  ? 
They  say  not." 

"  Oil,  well,"  said  Gwyn,  in  nn  attempt  at 
his  old  cheerfulness,  "  I'm  young.  There's 
lots  of  young  fellows  that  fight  their  way 
through  life." 

"  Sure,  and  there  are,"  said  Bessie,  pleas- 
antly ;  "  but  you  know,  Gwynnie  dear,  you 
haven't  been  brought  up  to  fight  your  own 
way — no  more  have  I." 

"Ton  my  soul,  Bessie,"  said  Gwyn,  with 
a  short  laugh,  "  you're  developing  an  amount 
of  prudence  that  I  never  gave  you  credit 
for." 

"  Sure,  and  it'.s  the  bitter,  black  prospect 
before  us  that's  enough  to  make  a  fool  wise. 
I'll  have  to  give  up  being  a  butterfly,  Gwyn- 
nie darling,  so  I  will,  and  turn  into  a  busy 
bee.  It's  not  prudence,  so  it  isn't.  It's  fear, 
for  I'm  frightened  out  of  my  wits.  And  oh  ! 
don't— don't  be  so  hasty,  Gwynnie,  don't  give 
up  all,  don't,  don't,  darling,  darling  Gwyn- 
nie!" 

With  these  words  Bessie  burst  into  tears, 
flung  her  arms  about  her  husband,  and  sobbed 
upon  hi.s  breast. 

"  Oh,  come,  now,"  said  Gwyn,  but  he 
could  say  no  more.  He  was  troubled.  Bes- 
sie held  him  thus,  and  entreated  him  as  be- 
fore. 

"  I  must,"  said  Gwyn,  "  my  own  darling. 
It's  dishonor  not  to — " 

"  Oh,  sure,  and  what's  dishonor  compared 


15G 


AX    Ol'EN   (iUEssTlOX. 


I'    ii 


1  ! 


to  bluck,  biting  poverty  ?  Sorrow  tlie  bit  do 
I  care  for  dishonor,  and  tlicre  you  liavc  it." 

At  this,  Gwyn  sliranlc  back  a  little.  The 
hand  which  was  fondling  her  and  soothin;; 
licr  again,  as  before,  ceased  ns  if  paralyzed. 
IIo  looked  at  the  golden  head  and  the  Blen- 
der form. 

"  Well,  licssie,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  a 
lady  once  told  nie,  iu  confidence,  that  women 
never  have  any  sense  of  true  honor.  I  was 
horrified,  nt  the  time,  at  such  a  sentiment, 
from  a.  lady  too  ;  but,  after  wiiat  you've  just 
said,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  don't  begin  to  think 
there  must  be  some  truth  in  it." 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Bessie.  "What's 
sentiment?  What's  honor?  It's  only  j/om  I 
care  for  in  all  the  world,  only  i/ou — only  i/ou 
— and  this  will  bring  darkness  and  sorrow 
down  on  you,  Gwynuie.  0  Gwynnie!  0 
Gwynnie !  darling,  darling  Gwynnie !  what 
will  become  of  you  ?  " 

At  such  fond  words  as  these,  Gwyn's  heart 
overflowed  with  tenderness.  The  poor,  little, 
weak,  loving  creature,  thus  clinging  to  him, 
with  her  timid,  tender,  loving  heart,  how 
could  she  be  responsible  for  any  sentiments 
that  did  not  happen  to  come  up  to  a  man's 
code  of  honor?  It  was  enough  for  him  that 
she  loved  him  so.  lie  kissed  her  therefore 
tenderly,  and  soothed  her  fears. 

"This  man,"  said  Bessie  —  "this  man 
comes  like  a  serpent,  to  ruin  us.' 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  nonsense  !  Bessie,  dar- 
ling, you  mustn't  talk  so." 

Bessie  clung  more  closely  to  him. 

"  1  wi^■h  he  had  never,  never  come  !  "  she 
eaid,  passionately. 

"0  Bessie!" 

"  I  wish  he  had  died  when  they  thought 
he  had." 

"  Darling,  don't  t.alk  so,  you  don't  know 
how  you  wring  my  heart." 

"  I  don't  care.  I  wish  he  was  dead  !  " 
cried  Bessie,  fiercely  and  bitterly. 

"Bessie,"  said  Gwyn,  "you  must  stop." 

lie  spoke  sternly.  Bessie  gave  a  sob,  and 
clung  more  closely  to  him.  Ilcr  arms  were 
around  him.  lie  loved  her  better  than  life. 
lie  thought  her  not  responsible  for  these 
passionate  words,  and,  in  the  circling  clasp 
of  those  loving  arms,  how  could  lie  feel  an- 
ger? 


CUAl'TEn  XXXVIII. 

IlKVIVIxa   OLD  ASSOCIATIONS. 

IIowkvkh  excited  Bessie's  feelings  may 
have  been,  they  left  no  trace  behind,  for  an 
the  following  day  she  greeted  "  dear  brother 
Kaue"witii  the  same  cordiality,  the  same 
innocent  alfeelion,  and  the  same  sisterly  fa- 
miliarity which  had  distinguished  their  adieux 
of  the  evening  before.  As  for  Gwyn,  there 
was  no  change  iu  him,  except  that  he  was,  if 
possible,  even  more  cordial  than  ever.  Kane 
on  his  part  was  in  no  haste  to  put  an  end  to 
the  happiness  which  he  felt  at  thus  finding 
himself  again  the  centre  of  atfectionate  atten- 
tions ;  he  felt  as  thougli  his  business  hud  somc- 
tliingin  it  which  would  iu  some  way  interfere 
with  the  sunshine  of  tlie  present,  and  there- 
fore was  iu  no  immediate  haste  to  introduce 
it. 

That  day  they  passed  in  vi.«iting  the 
places  within  and  without  in  which  Kane  took 
an  interest. 

AV^hen  he  was  a  boy,  the  Ruthvens  had 
lived  in  London  principally,  ind  had  come 
to  this  place  but  seldom.  On  one  of  these 
occasions,  Kane  had  remained  several  weeks ; 
and  all  his  memories  of  Ruthvea  Towers  were 
crowded  into  this  space  of  time.  lie  was  then 
a  boy  of  fourteen,  active,  eager,  daring,  and 
during  this  visit  had  made  himself  thoroughly 
familiar  with  all  the  past  history  of  liuthven 
Towers,  with  every  legend  connected  witli 
this  place  or  with  the  surrounding  country. 
IIo  had  never  been  here  since,  but  so  vivid 
was  the  impression  which  this  visit  had  made 
upon  his  mind,  and  fo  retentive  was  his  mem- 
ory, that  every  thing  almost  that  ho  saw 
served  to  recall  some  incident  in  that  bright 
time  of  boyish  vigor  and  enjoyment. 

To  all  the  rcmituscences  of  tliat  briglit 
past,  Gwyn  listened  with  his  usual  relish  and 
absorbed  interest,  questioning  his  brother 
incessantly,  and  hanging  upon  his  words  with 
that  fond  admiration  which  ever  since  Kane's 
arrival  liad  marked  his  altitude  toward  hiui. 
Kane  found  it  pleasant  lo  talk  of  this  paet — 
which  lay  beyond  the  time  of  his  calamity; 
and  all  the  more  so,  since  he  had  such  listen- 
ers. Tor  he  had  not  only  Gwyn,  but  Bessie 
also;  and  she,  too,  showed  something  of  the 
same  feelings  which  Gwyn  evinced — the  same 
attitude  of  eager  attention,  the  same  look  of 
intense  interest,  of  utter  and  complete  self- 


KKVIVINO   ()I,D   ASSOCIATIUXS. 


157 


clings   may 
ind,  for  on 
ar  brother 
tlio   Bamc 
sisterly  fa- 
tlicir  adicux 
Ciwyii,  there 
t  In;  was,  if 
VL-r.     Kane 
t  an  end  to 
thus  finding 
onate  utteu- 
S3  had  soino- 
vay  interfoie 
t,  and  there- 
to iutroUuco 

viiiiting  the 
2h  Kane  took 

iilhvens  Lad 
id  had  come 

one  of  these 
2voral  weeks ; 
I  Towers  were 

lie  was  then 
,  daring,  and 
ilf  thoroughly 
y  of  Kuthveu 
nnected  with 
iding  country. 
I,  but  so  vivid 
isit  liad  made 
was  his  mem. 
that  ho  saw 
in  that  bright 
ncnt. 

'f  that  bright 
lal  relish  and 
;  his  brother 
lis  words  with 
'  since  Kane's 
'.  toward  him. 
if  this  past — 
his  calamity ; 
id  such  listen- 
n,  but  Bessie 
lething  of  the 
;ed — the  same 
same  look  of 
3ompIete  self- 


absorption  in  the  narrative  of  the  speaker. 
She  had  sliown  all  this  on  the  previous  day ; 
and  now  she  showed  it  still  more  strongly. 

In  the  morning  they  strolled  about  the 
grounds,  and,  after  this,  went  out  for  a  drive. 
Kane  sat  with  Bessie  in  tiie  back-seat,  (!wyn 
in  the  front-seat.  As  they  had  found  in  the 
house  and  about  the  park  many  objects 
which  called  up  old  associations  in  Kane's 
mind,  80  did  they  also  find,  beyond  thegrouiul.'<, 
places  that  lived  in  his  recolleetion,  and  which 
were  associated  with  the  events  of  that  halcyon 
time  when  he  made  his  boyish  visit  to  Kuth- 
ven  Towers. 

Beyond  the  liniits  of  the  park  the  eouniry 
became  hilly,  and  among  these  eminences 
was  one  which  was  very  conspieuou-i  from 
the  road  as  they  drove  along.  It  was  a  pre- 
cipice about  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high, 
whose  dark,  rocky  sides  presented  a  gloomy 
contrast  to  the  rich  vegetation  all  around, 
and  the  waving  trees  and  grassy  slopes  be- 
yond thi.'?.  The  moment  Kane  caught  sight 
of  this  he  seemed  unusually  excited. 

"There,"  said  he,  "  is  a  place  where  I  did 
one  of  the  pluckiest  things  I  ever  did  in  my 
life." 

"  Oh,  do,  dear  brother  Kane,  tell  us  all 
about  it,  if  you  please,  brother  Kane.  I  do 
to  love  to  hear  about  these  adventures  of 
yours,  so  I  do.  Do,  please — won't  you,  broth- 
er Kane  ?  " 

Kane  looked  with  a  smile  at  tlie  beautiful 
face,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  with  an  ex- 
pression of  the  most  anxious  entreaty,  and 
whose  tone  was  one  of  the  most  coaxing  and 
irresistible. 

"  Well,  really,  Bessie,"  said  he,  "  it  seems 
absurd  for  me  to  be  talking  so  much  about 
myself" 

"  Oh,  but  you  know  we  do  so  love  to  hear 
nil  about  what  you  used  to  be,  and  to  do ! — 
don't  we,  Gwynnie  darling? — and  wc  haven't 
seen  you  all  these  years — now,  have  we,  Gwyn- 
nie  darling  ?  " 

Gwyn  lent  his  solicitations  to  those  of 
Bessie,  and  Kane  went  on  to  tell  about  a 
boyish  exploit,  which  was  really  very  cred- 
itable. 

"You  still  call  that  place  the  'Witch's 
Rock  ?  '  "  said  Kane,  inquiringly. 

"Yes,"  said  Gwyn. 

"  Well,"  said  Kane,  "  when  I  was  here,  I 
no  sooner  heard  that  name  than  1  was  wild  to 
visit  it,  and  to  hear  the  story,  if  there  was 


any  story,  that  wa.s  connected  with  so  strange 
a  name.  It  was  some  story  about  a  witch 
that  lived  in  a  cave  on  the  side  of  that  clifl' 
ever  so  long  ago,  and  kept  the  whole  country 
at  defiance,  though  they  all  turned  out  to 
hunt  her.  No  one  could  got  at  her,  though, 
and  she  remained  there.  How  she  lived,  no 
one  knew;  but  the  legend  had  it  that  she 
never  died,  but  was  living  there  yet.  Now, 
you  see,  that  was  just  the  thing  to  set  mo 
wild  with  curiosity.  In  the  first  place,  the 
existence  of  a  cave  in  the  face  of  the  clilf 
was  a  temptation  in  itself;  and  then,  again, 
the  idea  that  the  witch  might  be  living  there 
yet  was  a  still  stronger  one.  I  didn't  believe 
in  the  witch,  but  I  did  believe  in  the  cave, 
and,  as  no  one  had  ever  got  into  it,  I  thought 
I'd  try  for  myself.  Well,  I  got  some  roi)eH, 
and,  without  saying  a  word  to  any  one,  went 
to  the  place,  and  let  myself  down  from  the 
top.  It  was  about  the  most  risky  thing  I 
ever  tried.  The  cave  was  sunk  in,  and  it 
wasn't  possible  to  get  a  foothold  in  it  at  all, 
without  swinging  backward  and  forward. 
However,  I  sticcceded  in  the  attempt,  and 
actually  penetrated  into  it.  It  was  not  much 
of  a  place.  It  was  about  ten  feet  wide  in- 
side, and  twenty  deep,  and  I  dare  say  had 
often  sheltered  fugitives  in  the  stormy  times 
of  the  past.  I  cut  my  name  there,  and,  I  re- 
member now,  I  forgot  my  knife,  which  is  there 
yet,  unless  some  one  has  visited  the  place  and 
picked  it  up." 

"  By  Jove  !"  said  Gwyn,  "  I  don't  believe 
I  should  have  the  nerve  for  that  sort  of  thing, 
old  boy.  I  sliouldn't  mind  so  much  lowering 
myself  down,  but  it's  the  swinging  part  of 
the  business  that  would  upset  me." 

"Yes,  that  was  the  hardest  part  of  it," 
said  Kane. 

"  But,  oh,  how  perfectly  awful !  "  cried 
Bessie.  "  Why,  it  makes  me  positively  dizzy 
even  to  think  of  it,  so  it  does.  And  how  you 
ever  dared  to  do  such  a  thing  I  can't  imagine 
at  all,  at  all. — Now,  can  you,  Gwynnie  dear?  " 

"  I  wonder  whether  I  could  do  such  a 
thing  as  that  now  ? "  said  Kane,  gazing 
thoughtfully  at  the  precipice.  The  carriage 
bad  stopped.     They  all  looked  there. 

"  Why,  what  a  perfectly  horrible  idea  !  " 
cried  Bessie.  "  Why,  I'm  sure  you'd  bo 
dashed  to  pieces,  so  you  would." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Kane,  with  a  smile,  "  there's 
no  danger  of  that.  The  only  question  is, 
whether  I  could  do  the  swinging  part  of  it." 


158 


AN   OPKN   QUKSTIOX. 


I     'I 


"Ob,  Low  awfully  funny  1"  saiil  Bessie. 
"Sure  but  1  almost  wish  yuu  would,  Kane 
dear." 

"By  Jovo  1"  fluid  Kane,  "  J  feel  very  much 
like  it.  I'd  like  lo  try  whether  a  mau'a 
iicrvcB  arc  as  steady  as  those  of  a  boy." 

"And  then  there's  your  knife,"  said  Bcs- 
eio.  "Oh,  but  wouldn't  it  be  the  fine  thing 
tutircly  If  you  should  get  in  there  again,  and 
find  that  nobody  had  ever  been  there  since 
yourself,  at  all  ut  all,  and  wouldn't  you  be 
the  proud  man  1 " 

"The  knife?"  .'•aid  Kane.  "  Uy  Jove  1 
wouldn't  1  like  lo  get  that  knife  a;:ain  1  Ttie 
knife?  why  it  woull  be  like  getting  back 
part  of  my  boyhood.  I  should  take  it  as  an 
onic';,  if  !  found  it — an  onicn  for  good  in  the 
future — thai  things  arc  going  to  turn  out  for 
me  all  right  in  the  end." 

"Sure  but  you  never  could  get  down 
there,"  said  Iicssie ;  "  never  at  all  at  all. 
Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't  have  the  nerve  now. 
It's  loo  terrib'e.  Why,  really  it  makes  nie 
quite  dizzy  to  think  of  it. — Doesn't  it  make 
you  dizzy,  G  .vynnic  dear  ?  " 

"  Dizzy  ?  pooh  !  "  said  Kane,  whose  eyes 
were  fi.\cd  upon  the  elilf,  as  if  by  some  strong 
fascination.  "Dizzy?  why,  no  man  that  has 
a  man's  head  on  his  shoulders  need  think 
any  thing  of  that.  I  couhl  easily  go  down 
and  back  again,  but  I  might  not  bo  so  agile 
as  I  then  was,  and  might  not  be  able  to  get  a 
foothold." 

"But,  oh,  what  a  triumph  it  would  be! 
and,  oh,  but  it's  the  proud  man  you'd  be  if 
you  were  to  find  the  knife!" 

"  Look  here,  Bessie,"  said  Gwyn,  sudden- 
ly, "  'pon  my  word,  this  is  liardly  the  thing, 
you  know  ;  you  seem  to  be  actually  templing 
Kane  to  a  dangerous  adventure,  when  you 
ought  to  be  trying  to  prevent  him." 

"  .Me  tempt  him  ?  "  said  Bessie,  reproach- 
fully. "He?  sure  it's  only  encouraging  him 
that  I  was,  and  I'm  really  frightened  out  of 
my  wits  at  the  very  idea,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't 
believe  that  he'd  dare  to  do  it,  and  that's  the 
only  comfort  I  have,  so  it  is." 

"  Dare  ?  That's  the  wrong  word  to  use, 
Bessie.  You'll  only  make  Kane  the  more 
determined."' 

Kane  laughed  merrily.  In  his  laugh  there 
■was  a  ring  and  a  gusto  that  had  not  been 
known  in  any  laugh  of  his  for  years.  He  was 
for  the  moment  like  a  boy  again.  The  pros- 
pect of  renewing  his  old  enterprise  and  re- 


pealing his  boyish  fiMt,  of  itself  seemed  to 
have  rijuvenated  him. 

"  Dare  ?  ha,  hu  !  "  he  said.  "  When  a  lady 
dares  a  man  lo  do  any  thing,  tliere's  nothing 
left  but  to  do  it.  But,  at  any  rate,  I  feel  con- 
foundedly like  going;  and,  by  Jove!  I  will 
go." 

Be.-sie  smiled  radiantly  at  him,  and  threw, 
immediately  afterward,  a  deprecatory  glaneo 
at  (!wyn. 

"Nonsense,  Kane!  don't  think  of  such  a 
thing ;  it's  oangerous." 

"  Dangerous  ?  jiooh  ! "  said  Kane.  "  I  tell 
you  the  night  of  this  rock  has  made  mo  a  boy 
again.  I  want  to  find  my  knife.  (Jwyn,  my 
boy,  you  don't  know  how  I  cling  to  that  gl 
rious  boyhood,  and  you'll  never  linow  till 
you've  had  a  manhood  like  niin  id  I'rom 
that  may  Heaven  preserve  you  1" 

These  last  (c\v  words  were  spoken  wiih 
sad  and  solemn  intonations.  These  words 
Gwyn  had  occasion  altcrward  lo  recall — 
al'terward,  when  they  seemed  to  liim  lo  have 
a  prophetic  meaning. 

For  the  presi  nt,  at  any  rate,  Kane  had 
made  n\)  his  mind,  and  for  the  rest  of  the 
day  was  full  of  tliis  new  i<!oa.  His  old  grim- 
ncss  departed  utterly,  and  u  boyish  culliu- 
siusm  about  his  coming  attempt  took  the 
place  of  it.  (iwyu  made  a  few  feeble  attempts 
lo  dissuade  him  from  it.  He  felt  some  strange, 
indefinable  presentiments  of  evil,  but  did  not 
know  how  lo  express  these  in  words,  and  so 
his  attempts  to  dissuade  Kane  were  only 
laughed  at.  But  Bessie  cheered  him  on. 
Bessie  talked  about  it  incessantly,  Bessie 
laughed  about  it,  and  made  merry  about  it; 
and  even  if  Kane  had  been  inclined  lo  give 
it  up,  he  could  scarcely  have  done  so  under 
such  circumslanees.  But  Kane  was  not  in- 
clined to  give  it  up.  The  idea  had  taken 
complete  pos.scssion  of  him,  and  nothing  now 
could  have  prevented  his  putting  it  inlo  ex- 
ecution. He  spent  some  time  that  day  in 
making  preparations  for  his  adventure.  These 
preparations  were  not  at  all  elaborate.  Tliey 
consisted  simply  in  procuring  a  rope  of  sufli- 
cient  length  and  strength,  and  tying  a  series 
of  alternate  knots  and  loops.  This  was  llio 
mode  which  lie  had  adopted  when  a  boy,  and 
its  complete  success  at  that  time  recom- 
mended  it  as  the  best  thing  which  he  could 
do  now  ;  beside*,  in  thin  recent  revival  of 
boyish  feeling,  any  thing  that  could  connect 
him  more  closely  with  those  early  days  was 


'Ik 


UKVIVINO   OLD   ASSOCIATIONS. 


160 


seemed  to 

leu  a  lady 
'a  notliliig 

1  feci  con- 
)ve !  I  will 

anil  llirew, 
Uny  gluiico 

of  sucli  a 

inc.  "  I  tell 
lu  me  a  boy 
(iwyn,  my 
;o  that  k'' 
r  know  till 
\d  lioin 

pokcn  with 

licae  Moi'ds 

to    recall — 

iiiiu  to  have 

.',  Kano  had 
I  rest  of  the 
M  old  gfim- 
uyisli  euthu- 
pt  took  the 
;ble  attc'inpta 
ionie  strange, 
,  but  did  not 
Olds,  and  so 
B  were  only 
•cd  him  on. 
itly.  Dcssio 
ny  about  it ; 
ined  to  give 
ine  80  under 
was  not  in- 
a  had  taken 
nothing  now 
!5  it  into  ex- 
lliat  day  in 
iituie.  These 
orate.  They 
-ope  of  sudi- 
ying  a  series 
This  was  the 
m  a  boy,  and 
time  recom- 
lich  he  could 
it  revival  of 
ould  connect 
u'ly  days  was 


welcome,  and  nothing  seemed  pleasantcr  to 
him  than  to  repeat,  even  to  the  minutest  do- 
taihs,  the  [dan  which  had  formerly  been  so 
successful. 

Another  evening  came — the  second  even- 
ing  at  Uuthven  Towers  for  Kane.  IJy  this 
time  ho  and  Ucssie  were  on  terms  that  were 
most  cordial,  most  fraternal,  and  most  confi- 
dential, lie  had  thus  far  refrained  from  nien- 
tioning  the  real  object  of  his  jouriu'v  here, 
from  the  fear  that  the  mention  of  this  rai^ht 
mar  the  joy  of  this  intcrcour.se.  Yet  ihrou,','; 
this  day  he  had  thought  much  of  this,  an('  il.c 
more  he  thought  of  it  the  more  b'  '.rd  did 
such  hesitation  seem.     Here  wa?  noble- 

hearted  brother  and  this  gentle  nnd  lovir ^ 
wile — his  brother  nnd  sister —wliy  Bliduhl  lie 
hesitate  any  longer  to  tell  tliem  '■•'  .t  ho 
M-islicd  to  tell?  Not  the  story  vi  Clan — 
that  was  tio  sad,  too  tragic,  too  icrrible,  for 
Buch  innocent  ears  as  Bessie's  to  hear — but 
rather  the  story  of  Inez.  Was  not  Ilcssic  the 
friend  of  Inez  ?  Did  not  Inez  s-till  love  her 
and  trust  in  her  ?  Why  dilay  to  make 
known  to  the  only  friend  that  Inez  hid  the 
terrible  loneliness  of  her  position  ?  What 
could  be  better  for  the  poor,  lonely  girl  than 
to  be  able  to  join  her  friend  once  more  ?  i 
Once  together,  all  could  be  explained  ;  or 
even  if  any  mystery  remained  they  could 
wait,  secure  in  one  another's  love,  until  light 
should  be  thrown  upon  it. 

Kane's  confidence  in  Bessie  was  complete. 
It  had  grown  rapidly,  but  he  had  come  to  her 
.13  a  brother,  and  she  had  met  him  as  a  sis- 
ter. Under  these  circumstances  there  had 
been  none  of  that  reserve  which  otherwise 
might  have  existed. 

Accordingly,  that  evening  he  told  them 
about  Inez,  lie  told  the  story  to  both  of 
them,  for  they  were  both  one  now,  and  he 
never  dreamed  of  telling  Bessie  any  thing 
which  Gwyn  might  not  also  hear.  It  was 
his  confidence  in  j'-'ssie's  gentle  and  noble 
character,  her  loyalty,  and  her  innate  worth, 
that  led  him  to  this.  He  did  not  tell,  how- 
ever, the  whole  story  as  Inez  had  .old  it  to 
him.  The  perplexing  mystery  of  her  claim  to 
be  the  daughter  of  Bcrnal  Mordaunt,  when 
Bessie  had  been  acknowledged  as  that  very 
daughter,  prevented  him  from  touching  upon 
the  subject,  and  from  even  mentioning  the 
name.  He  merely  mentioned  that  Inez  had 
received  a  letter  from  one  who  professed  to 
have  been  appointed  by  her  father  as  lier 


guardian ;  that  Inez  had  believed  the  letter, 
and,  with  the  utmost  reeklcssncss,  had  com- 
plied  with  his  reipiest  to  come  to  him  at 
I'aris.  When  there  she  had  Ibund  out  that 
this  man  was  not  what  he  professed  to  bo, 
and  that,  for  some  unknown  reason,  he  wished 
to  kjcp  her  in  his  power.  S!;e  was  subjeetcJ 
to  restraint  for  a  time,  but  mana^'cd  finally  to 
eseape.  f^lie  had  written  twice  to  Bessie,  but 
had  received  no  answer. 

In  this  guarded  way  Kane  told  the  story 
of  Inez,  and  in  this  way  he  avoided  altogeth- 
er that  painful  and  diiUrcssing  conlasion  of 
names,  elinni:',  and  rights,  which  the  full 
staten.eut  of  the  truth  would  have  brought 
foi'ivard.  He  did  not  mention  even  the  name 
of  Kevin  Magrath  for  fear  of  distressing  Bes- 
sie, but  contented  fimself  with  the  name  of 
(loiinod.  It  was  enough  for  him  just  then 
to  reveal  the  condition  of  Inez,  and  he  was 
willing  to  leave  all  the  rest  to  the  future.  He 
thought  tlia:  I'le  best  thing  for  him  to  do  would 
be  to  bring  Inez  and  Bissie  together  on  the 
old  footing;  and  then  Inez  might  tell,  uf  her 
own  accord,  as  nuieh  or  as  little  as  she  c'lose 
about  her  story.  Ho  could  not  help  feeling 
thit  much  had  yet  to  be  discovered  belbro 
the  conllicting  claims  of  these  two,  who  wcro 
so  innocent  and  so  dear,  could  in  any  way  be 
harmonized. 

If  there  had  remained  in  the  mind  of 
Kar.e  any  vestige  of  a  doubt  in  Bessie,  her 
reception  of  his  story  would  have  removed  it. 

Astonishment,  grief,  sympathy,  joy,  ail 
seemed  to  struggle  together  in  the  expression 
of  Bessie's  face  and  in  the  tones  of  her  voice. 
The  start  of  horror  at  the  wiekednosa  of 
those  who  made  this  plot;  the  cry  ol  fear  at 
the  danger  of  Inez;  the  exclainalion  of  joy 
at  her  escape  and  safety  ;  of  all  that  in  look, 
or  word,  or  tone,  or  gesture,  could  indicate 
the  deepest  and  sincercst  sympathy,  not  one 
thing  was  wanting. 

"  Oh,  but  isn't  this  the  blessed  day,"  she  ex- 
claimed, at  last ; "  and  oh,  but  wasn't  I  the  heart- 
broken girl !  For,  you  see,  Kane  dear,  it  was  the 
death  of  her  poor  papa — poor,  dear,  old  Ciuardy 
Wy  verne — that  upset  her  altogether.  And  not 
one  word,  good  or  bad,  would  she  speak  to 
me,  and  me  fretting  my  heart  out,  and  trying 
to  get  from  her  even  a  look.  It's  maJ  she 
was  entirely.  Insane,  and  out  of  her  head, 
and  no  mistake.  And  me  that  used  to  lie 
awake  all  night  long  crying  my  eyes  out  about 
her.     I  was  looking  forward  to  her  coming 


i        ]  : 


160 


AX   Ol'E.V   QUESTION'. 


hero  with  mc  to  Mordaunt  Manor,  where  slie'd 
get  over  her  grief.  But  never  a  word  eould  I 
get  from  her.  Oh,  it's  mad  she  was — mad, 
and  nothing  else,  from  grief  and  trouble. 
There's  a  vein  of  madness  in  the  Wyverne 
family,  Kane  dear,  and  she's  got  a  touch  of 
the  family  complaint,  and  that's  all  about  it, 
and  there  you  have  it.  And  that's  how  it  wus 
with  poor,  dear,  old  Guardy  Wyverne,  that 
for  the  last  two  or  three  months  of  his  life 
was  positively  out  of  his  mind  all  the  time. 
It  was  really  awful.  And  only  think,  at  the 
last,  he  really  mistook  poor,  dear,  darling 
Inez  for  mc,  and  told  her  she  wasn't  his 
daughter,  and  that  excited  the  poor  darling 
60  that  her  own  mind  gave  way.  Oh,  I  saw 
it.  I  often  thought  about  that.  But  I 
thought  the  best  way  was  to  leave  her  alone, 
and  not  worry  her,  or  bother  her,  and  all  that, 
and  she'd  soon  come  around.  Oh,  why 
couldn't  she  have  been  more  frank  with  me  ? 
If  she  had  only  shown  me  that  letter  1  And 
who  is  this  Gounod?  What  an  awful  name! 
And  only  think  of  her  running  away  on  a 
wild  errand  after  a  periect  stranger  who  writes 
her  a  crazy  letter  !  Oh,  sure  but  it's  mad  she 
was — poor,  dear,  darling,  old  Inez.  Kcally  it 
makes  me  shudder  when  I  think  of  it.  To 
rim  away  so,  you  know.  I  was  frightened 
out  of  my  wits  all  the  time,  and  1  should 
have  gone  all  the  way  there  with  her,  but  I 
went  as  far  as  Southampton,  and  my  courage 
failed.  She  was  so  perfectly  aw  ful,  you  know, 
Kane  dear;  and  do  you  know,  Kane  dear, 
she  didn't  speak  a  word  all  the  way  there, 
and  .aeemed  really  angry  that  I'd  come  ? 

"And  then,  you  know,  Kane  dear,  I  went 
back — and  oh,  but  it  was  me  that  had  the 
sore  heart,  and  then  I  had  to  go  to  Mordaunt 
Manor  at  once,  for  they  were  doing  something 
about  poor,  dear  Guardy  AVyverne's  estate, 
and  they  said  they'll  have  to  shut  up  his 
house  and  sell  every  thing.  So  I  had  to  come 
here  to  Mordaunt  Manor,  and  then  carac  poor, 
dear,  darling  papa — and  oil,  he  was  so  very, 
very  ill!  and — and  you  know  what  happened." 

Hero  Bessie's  emotion  made  her  break 
down  ;  and,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands, 
she  sobbed  pitcously.  It  was  very  sad,  and 
Kane's  eyes  moistened  as  ho  saw  the  beauti- 
ful golden  head  bowed  down,  and  the  slender 
frame  shaken  by  sobs,  Gwyn,  too,  was  over, 
come,  and  in  his  despair  tried  all  the  caresses 
of  which  he  was  capable  to  soothe  Bessie's 
agitated  feelings. 


At  length  she  revived  and  raised  her  head, 
but  kept  her  eyes  fixed  mournfully  on  the  floor. 

"  It's  easy  to  see  how  her  letters  missed 
mc,"  said  she,  sadly.  "She  had  directed 
them  to  London,  and  they  never  reached  me. 
I  left  no  directions  about  forwarding  letters, 
for  I  never  expected  to  get  any,  and  didn't 
give  it  a  thought.  Its  heart-broke  I  was 
about  dear,  darling  Inez,  and  I  never  thought 
of  any  thing.  How  could  her  letters  ever  get 
to  me  ?  And  so  there  she  was,  and  there  she 
is  now — and  oh,  my  darling,  darling  Iny  !  my 
sweet,  sweet  sister  !  what  a  power  of  suffer- 
ing you've  had  to  bear  !  " 

Kane's  eyes  now  overflowed.  He  was  a 
brave,  strong,  resolute  man,  but  he  was  very 
tender-hearted,  and  the  sight  of  Bessie's  grief 
was  too  much.     Gwyn,  also,  was  overcome. 

"  And  oh,  Kane  dear,  why  didn't  you  tell 
me  last  night?  I'll  go  to  her  at  once.  We 
must  all  go." 

At  this  Kane  smiled.  It  was  just  what  h« 
most  longed  for. 

"  But  I'll  write  her  too,''  said  Bessie, 
"first  of  all,  in  case  of  any  delay  on  our 
part.  I'll  write  her  this  night,  for  I  can't 
leave  at  once,  not  for  a  day  or  two,  and  if  she 
only  gets  a  letter  to  know  I'm  coming,  it'll 
cheer  her  a  little,  and  she'll  wait  patiently, 
the  poor,  sweet  darling!  St  you'll  give  mo 
her  address  now,  Kane  dear." 

As  Bessie  said  this  she  drew  a  tablet  from 
her  pocket,  and,  taking  out  the  pencil,  handed 
it  to  Kane. 

Kane  took  the  pencil  and  tablet,  and  wrote 
the  address  of  Inez. 

Then  they  talked  long  and  tenderly  of 
their  absent  friend,  and  wlicn  at  last  the  time 
came  for  Bessie  to  retire,  she  held  her  cheek 
for  Kane  to  kiss,  and  said  : 

"  Good-night,  Kane  dear,  and  pleasant 
dreams  to  you  !  " 


CHArTER  XXXIX. 

THE   TEMPTKR. 

Kane  was  joyous  over  the  prospect  of 
Bessie's  journey  to  Inez,  and  still  ,  ore  bo  at 
her  eagerncas  and  her  promptness.  On  the 
folionirT  ilVj.  Bessie  informed  him  that  she 
had  written  and  scut  her  letter,  and  that  she 
would  not  be  able  to  set  out  herself  for  two 
or  three  days  yet.    Such  a  delay  did  not  seem 


TUE   TEMPTER. 


161 


her  head, 
the  floor. 
cr3  missed 
directed 
ached  me. 
ng  letters, 
and  didn't 
okc  I  was 
er  thought 
IS  ever  get 
there  she 
giny!  my 
of  suffer- 

Ile  was  a 
0  was  very 
esfie'a  grieC 
avercoine. 
n't  you  tell 
I  once.     We 

just  what  ho 

said  Bessie, 
elay  on  our 
for  I  can't 
0,  and  if  sho 
coming,  it'll 
lit  patiently, 
)u'll  give  mo 

a  tablet  from 
icncil,  banded 

let,  and  wrote 

tenderly  of 
,  last  the  time 
eld  ber  cheek 

and  pleasant 


!  prospect  of 
till  i  ore  80  at 
ncsa.  On  the 
him  that  she 
,  and  that  she 
erself  for  two 
y  did  not  seem 


long  to  Kane,  who  now,  that  the  future  of 
Inez  seemed  secure,  felt  less  baste  to  see 
her  again.  lie  could  well  afford  to  stay 
here  a  little  longer,  where  all  was  so  pleas- 
ant ;  and  now  that  this  troublesome  mat- 
ter had  been  arranged,  the  enjo3-ment  which 
he  found  in  his  vi.sit  was  more  pure  and  un- 
alloyed than  it  bad  tlius  far  been.  Gwyn 
seconded  Bessie's  proposal  with  the  earnest- 
ness that  might  have  been  expected  of  him, 
and  it  was  arranged  tliat  in  three  days  tboy 
should  all  set  out  together.  In  tlie  mean 
time,  the  active  nature  of  Kane  required  em- 
ployment, and  the  Witch's  Rock  once  more 
recurred  to  his  mind  more  attractively  than 
ever.  Bessie  was  the  first  to  mention  it. 
Slie  did  it,  in  a  laugliing  way,  by  asking  him 
if  bo  still  intended  to  get  his  knife  before  he 
left.  The  question  was  met  by  an  eager  dec- 
laration, on  Kane's  part,  that  be  would  make 
an  attempt  on  the  cliff  that  very  day.  His 
simple  preparations  had  already  been  made, 
and  it  only  roraained  to  set  I'ortli  fur  the 
scene  of  action. 

On  tlie  way  there,  Bessie  was  more  lively, 
more  radiant,  and  move  charming,  than  ever. 
Witli  Kane,  wlio  was  full  of  his  enterprise, 
she  kept  up  an  incessant  conversation  of  the 
most  animated  character,  principally  about 
tlie  Witcli's  Rock.  She  made  him  tell  the 
story  of  his  old  exploit  all  over.  She  was 
particular  as  to  the  sliape  and  size  of  the 
cave,  and  the  way  in  which  be  had  swung 
himself  l)aekward  and  forward.  And,  as  she 
listened,  she  laughed  and  shuddered  by  turns, 
till,  in  her  excitement,  slie  seemed  almost 
hysterical.  Kane  was  too  much  engrossed 
with  his  plan  and  purpose,  and,  as  yet,  too 
little  acquainted  with  her,  to  notice  any  thing 
unusual  iu  ber  manner,  but  Gwyn  was  very 
forcibly  impressed  by  it.  Gwyn,  indeed,  was 
himself  unusually  silent,  and  seemed  some- 
what depressed.  This  mny  have  been  on  ac- 
count of  some  forebodings  of  indefinable  ca- 
lamity in  his  own  mind  ;  or  it  may  have  been 
anxiety  on  account  of  the  unusual  and  un- 
healthy excitement  of  Bessie  ;  or  it  may  liave 
been,  after  all,  merely  the  natural  silence  and 
obscurity  which  befalls  one  who  makes  a 
third  party  wliere  the  otlier  two  are  uncom- 
monly talkative  and  lively. 

In  this  way  tliey  reached  the  place.    The 

clifT  was  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  which  was 

easily  climbed  by  a  moderate  acclivity  about 

half  a  mile  off.     By  ascending  this  they  were 

11 


able  to  reach  the  edge  of  the  clilT  without 
dilHculty,  and  here  Kane  flung  down  his  ropo 
and  began  to  make  the  necessary  preparations 
for  his  descent. 

The  hill  was  a  long  one,  of  moderate  ele- 
vation, being  a  spur  thrown  out  from  Skid- 
daw;  and  the  cliff  was  formed  by  its  abrupt 
termination  on  one  side.  It  was,  as  has  beeu 
said,  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  iu 
height.  The  top  overhung  slightly,  and  at 
the  bottom  was  a  wilderness  of  sharp  rocks, 
the  dibris  of  the  cliff,  which  had  been  dis- 
lodged in  the  course  of  centuries  by  frost  and 
storm,  and  had  fallen  here. 

The  charges  which  had  taken  place  here 
since  Kane  was  a  boy  were  not  very  exten- 
sive. On  looking  about  him,  he  recognized 
several  landmarks  without  difficulty.  In  par- 
ticular, he  noticed  a  large  oak-tree,  around 
whose  trunk  be  bad  then  fastened  his  line; 
and  around  tlie  same  tree  he  proposed  to 
fasten  it  again.  This  tree,  fortunately,  stood 
over  the  very  place  wliere  the  cavern  was, 
and  consequently  was  by  far  the  best  point 
from  which  to  start  on  an  attempt  of  this 
nature. 

Kane  bound  his  rope  about  this  tree  with 
a  security  and  a  dexterity  which  indicated  a 
practised  hand.  After  this  he  flung  the  re- 
mainder of  the  rope  over  the  cliff,  and  looked 
over  to  see  how  far  it  reached.  It  went  down 
more  tlian  half  the  way.  Then  be  took  a 
carriage-rug,  which  he  had  brought  with  him, 
and  put  it  under  the  rope  where  it  ran  over 
tlie  edge  of  the  cliif,  so  as  to  prevent  any 
danger  tliat  might  arise  from  the  grinding  of 
tlie  rope  against  the  rock. 

As  ho  made  these  preparations,  he  kept 
up  an  incessant  flow  of  lively  and  joyous  re- 
marks ;  and  jesteil  about  the  witch,  who,  ac- 
cording to  tradition,  ought  still  to  be  tliero, 
and  who,  he  maintained,  was  bound  to  punish 
him  in  some  way  for  his  former  intrusion  into 
ber  abode.  With  this  Bessie  chimed  in,  and 
was  very  merry  over  an  absurd  picture  whicli 
slie  suggested  of  a  fight  between  Kane  and 
the  witcli  in  mid-air,  tlie  one  swinging  from  a 
rope,  and  the  other  flying  on  her  broom- 
stick. 

This  conversation,  absurd  tlunigh  it  might 
be,  was  yet  destined  to  be  memorable  to  one 
of  these  two  speakers. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  laugliter  and 
merriment,  that  Kane  advanced  to  tlie  edge 
of  tlie  cliff,  and  prepared  to  descend. 


u% 


AN   OPEN   QUESTIOX. 


"  Oood-by,  Kane  dear,  and  take  care  of 
yourself,"  said  Bessie,  witli  a  smile. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Kane  ;  "  never  fear.  I'll 
get  that  knife." 

■  The  next  moment  he  had  descended  over 
the  edge,  and  was  out  of  sight. 

All  this  time  Gwju  had  said  not  a  word, 
lie  stood  with  a  clouded  brow,  and  looked  on 
abstractedly.  There  was  trouble  in  his  mind. 
Kane,  however,  had  not  noticed  this  ;  for  his 
attention  was  aUogi:tlier  engrossed  by  his 
preparations,  and  by  Ik-ssie.  Thus  Gwyn  had 
watched  Kane  in  silence  while  he  bound  the 
rope  about  the  tree,  while  he  wrapped  the 
carriage-rug  around  it,  and  while  he  went 
over  the  edge  of  tlic  clilf.  Then  he  walked 
slowly  forward  and  knelt  down. 

lie  looked  over. 

The  knotted  rope  hung  far  down,  and 
lliere  below  him  w,is  Kane  clinging  to  it  with 
liis  muscular  grii)C,  and  letting  himself  down 
farther  and  farther.  As  he  went  farther 
down,  and  increased  the  distance  between 
himself  and  tlie  top  of  the  cliff,  there  began  a 
vibration  of  tlie  ro])e,  and  Gwyn  could  see 
his  brotlier  slowly  swinging  to  and  fro  with  a 
movement  that  increased  as  he  descended. 
The  sight  had  something  in  it  which  to  Gwyn 
was  intolerable,  and,  turning  away,  he  stood  up. 

As  he  did  so,  he  felt  a  slight  touch  on  his 
arm.  He  turned  with  a  sharp  and  sudden 
movement.  There  seemed  something  in  that 
touch  which  w.is  strangely  startling  to  him. 
Yet,  wlien  he  turned,  ho  saw  only  Bessie. 
Unusual,  indeed,  was  it  for  the  touch  of  the 
gentle  hand  of  this  young  wife  to  give  such  a 
shock  to  so  loving  a  husband.  But  Gwyn 
had  not  been  himself  all  this  day.  There  had 
been  something  on  his  mind  ;  and  this  some- 
thing had  transformed  him. 

So  now  he  turned,  and  saw  Bessie.  Iler 
face  was  perfectly  calm  and  placid,  and  her 
large,  soft,  deep-blue  eyes  were  fixed  u|)oii  his 
with  that  open,  childlike  gaze  which  formed 
the  sweetest  and  most  attractive  peculiarity 
of  Bessie's  face.  For,  when  Bessie  looked 
full  upon  any  other  person,  there  always 
seemed  in  her  face  such  a  suggestion  of  youth 
and  iniioconce  tiiat  the  one  who  encountered 
it  never  failed  to  feel  attracted.  Never  be- 
fore had  Gwyn  failed  to  bo  alfected  by  her 
Bweet  glance,  but  now,  as  he  encountered  it, 
there  was  no  response  on  his  part ;  nor  did 
liis  brow  relax  in  the  slightest  degree  from 
that  gloom  into  which  it  had  settled. 


Put  Gwyn's  look  produced  no  effect  what- 
ever upon  Bessie.  AVhether  she  noticed  it  or 
not,  did  not  appear.  Perhaps  she  did  ob- 
serve it,  but  attached  no  importance  to  it;  or 
perhaps  she  was  too  much  taken  up  with  her 
own  thoughts  to  regard  any  thing  external. 
She,  therefore,  looked  at  him  with  her  usual 
expression,  and  with  that  same  good-natured 
and  fascimiting  smile  upon  her  lips  which  she 
always  wore,  and,  with  a  tender,  confiding 
gesture,  she  stole  her  little  hand  toward  that 
of  Gwyn. 

As  her  hand  touched  tha  of  her  husband, 
he  shrank  back  and  turned  away  his  head. 
This  movement  was  too  apparent  to  be  unno- 
ticed, and  Bessie  stood  with  her  hand  still 
stretched  out,  looking  at  licr  husband  in  si- 
lence for  a  few  moments.  The  smile  did  not 
}  pass  from  her  face,  nor  did  she  appear  to  bo 
in  the  least  degree  ofi'enled  or  hurt.  On  the 
contrary,  after  a  slight  hesitation,  she  re- 
newed her  advances  in  such  a  way  that  they 
admitted  of  no  rejection,  for  she  stepped  tow- 
ard him  and  quietly  took  his  arm. 

"Sure,  Gwynnie  dear,"  said  she,  "you're 
not  yourself  at  nil  at  all  this  day.  Not  one 
word  have  you  spoken,  good  or  bad,  since 
last  night.  And  I'm  sure  I  think  you're 
really  unkind.  Haven't  you  ever  a  word  at 
all  at  nil  to  throw  to  a  poor  little  girl  that's 
fairly  heart-broken  with  such  coldness  and 
neglect?" 

Bessie,  as  she  said  this,  leaned  tenderly, 
lovingly,  and  confidingly,  upon  her  husband's 
arm,  and  looked  up  into  his  face  with  her 
sunniest  smile.  But  Gwyn  stood  with  his 
face  averted,  and  his  eyes  looking  far  olf  at 
vacancy,  and  the  cloud,  still  dirk  and  gloomy, 
over  his  brow,  The  broad,  seienc  trar.quil- 
lity  that  once  had  reigned  there — the  frank, 
ojien,  boyish  look  that  had  once  distinguished 
him  was  gone,  and  in  its  place  there  had  come 
the  shadow  of  some  stern,  dark,  unhallowed 
thought,  such  as  had  never  before  been  known 
to  his  honest  soul.  And  it  was  the  spell  of 
this  thought  that  at  this  moment  held  him 
bound,  so  that  lie  remained  inaccessible  to 
Bessie's  witchery,  to  her  smile  of  sweetness, 
her  glance  of  tenderness,  and  lier  words  of 
love.  There  was  a  change  in  him  beyond  ii 
doubt,  and,  whether  that  change  should  bo 
transient  or  penuanent,  depended  very  much 
upon  the  issues  of  this  lioiir. 

After  wailing  jiatiently  fiu-  some  time, 
Bessie  '"ouiid  that  G«yu  would  not  look  ( 


THE  TEMPTER. 


1G3 


ect  wliat- 
iced  it  or 
did  ob- 

e  to  it;  or 

->  witli  her 
external, 
her  usual 

)d-natureu 
which  she 
confiding 

award  that 

r husband, 
hia  head. 
0  be  unno- 
hand  still 
hand  in  Bi- 
ilo  did  not 
)pcar  to  be 
rt.  On  the 
on,  she  re- 
y  that  they 
topped  tow- 
he,  "  you're 
.'.  Not  one 
V  bad,  since 
hiuk  you're 
r  a  ^^orll  at 
e  girl  tliat'.-i 
oldness  and 

led  tenderly, 
er  husband's 
CO  with  lier 
od  nith  his 
ig  far  off  at 
and  gloomy, 
ne  traiupiil- 
' — the  frank, 
listinguished 
;re  had  come 
,  uidiallowed 
(  been  known 
the  spell  of 
nt  held  him 
iccessiblo  to 
f  .sweetness, 
icr  words  of 
m  beyond  u 
[('  should  be 
d  very  nnicli 

.sonio   time, 
not  look  r 


her ;  so,  with  a  little  sigh,  she  looked  away, 
and  at  the  same  time  nestled  more  closely  to 
him,  clasping  his  arm  iu  both  of  hers. 

"  Sure  and  he  must  have  the  steady  nerves, 
60  he  must — mustn't  ho,  Gwynnie  dear  ?  " 

To  this  Gwyn  murmured  something  which 
was  apparently  intended  for  a  reply,  but  was 
quite  unintelligible.  It  seemed  to  encourage 
Ucssie,  however.  She  pressed  his  arm  closer, 
and  one  of  her  hands  sought  out  bis,  and  this 
time  succeeded  iu  finding  a  place  where  it  lay 
nestling. 

"  And  he  must  be  down  an  awful  distance, 
so  he  must — mustn't  ho,  Tlwynnie  dear?" 
continued  Bessie,  after  a  few  moments,  mak- 
ing another  venture  to  mollify  Gwyn,  and 
draw  him  into  a  conversation. 

To  this  Gwyn  once  more  replied  as  before, 
in  an  inarticulate,  unintelligible  wa}'. 

"And  oh,  but  it's  the  heavy  man  he  must 
be,  and  a  heavy  weight  on  the  end  of  that  bit 
of  string,"  continued  Bessie,  who  seemed  to 
be  cautiously  feeling  her  way  onward  into  a 
conversation  about  whose  reception  she  felt 
doubtful. 

Gwyn  drew  a  long  breath,  and  said  noth- 
ing. 

Bessie  stole  a  look  up  at  his  face.  It  was 
still  averted.  It  was  averted  purposely.  He 
was  forcing  himself  to  look  away  for  some 
reason  or  other,  and  this  Bessie  could  easily  see. 

"  It's  awfully  dangerous,  so  it  is — isn't  it, 
then,  (Jwynnie  darling  ?  "  said  she  again,  in  a 
low  voice.      Gwyn  said  nothing. 

"  Gwynnie,"  said  Bessie,  pressing  his  arm 
— "  Gwynnie,  why  won't  you  speak  ?  " 

Gwyn  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  I  think,"  said  he,  "  we  are  standing  too 
near  the  edge." 

"  Sure  and  what  danger  is  there  ? "  said 
Bessie.  "  It's?  like  a  rock  you  are,  so  it  is, 
Gwynnie  dear,  and,  when  you  are  with  me, 
never  a  fear  have  I." 

She  said  these  words  tenderly  and  loving- 
ly, and  pressed  his  arm  again.  J'ora  moment 
the  cloud  on  Gwyn's  brow  seemed  to  bo  dis- 
pelled at  the  softer  emotion  which  Bessie's 
caress  had  caused,  out,  in  another  moment, 
the  tenderness  had  passed,  and  the  stern  look 
came  back. 

"  Wo  must  not  stand  so  near  it,"  said  he, 
in  a  harsh  voice.     "  It's  too  dangerous." 

With  these  words  he  stepped  back  about 
half  a  dozen  paces,  while  Bessie  accompanied 
Lim,  still  clinging  to  his  arm.     Here  they 


both  stood  iu  the  same  attitude  in  which  they 
had  been  before,  Bessie  still  clasping  his  arm. 
A  short  silence  followed.  Bessie  looked  at 
the  ground ;  Gwyn,  as  before,  stood  looking 
far  away  at  vacancy. 

All  around  them  lay  a  beautiful  scene; 
beneath  the  brow  of  the  cliff  was  the  valley, 
and  beyond  rose  wooded  heiglits.  The  pass- 
ing breeze  sighed  and  murmured  through  the 
trees,  aud  the  twitter  of  sparrows  arose 
through  the  air.  But  nothing  in  this  scene 
was  perceived  by  Gwyn,  in  that  deep  abstrac- 
tion of  soul  into  which  he  had  been  plunged. 
But  Bessie's  eyes  rested  upon  the  rope  which 
rau  along  the  ground  before  her,  holding 
suspended  in  mid-air  the  precious  burdea 
of  a  human  life. 

"  It  would  be  a  shocking  thing,  so  it 
would,"  said  she,  at  length,  "if  any  thing 
were  to  happen  to  him,  and  it's  not  unlikely. 
Stranger  things  than  that  have  happened, 
and  it's  a  highly-dangerous  venture." 

At  these  words  Gwyn  frowned  more  dark- 
ly, and,  with  a  quick  gesture,  withdrew  his 
arm  from  Bessie's  clasp,  and,  stepping  away 
a  foot  or  two,  he  stood  in  gloomy  silence. 

"  What  made  you  let  him  go  down,  Gwyn- 
nie dear  ? "  asked  Bessie,  in  a  low  voice,  af- 
ter watching  him  in  silence  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. 

Gwyn  made  no  reply. 

"  It's  a  small,  thin  rope,  and  might  grind 
itself  away  easy  enough,  so  it  might,"  con- 
tinued Bessie,  who,  as  she  spoke,  watched 
Gwyn's  face  closely,  as  though  wishing  to  see 
in  what  way  her  remarks  would  be  received ; 
"  and  sure,''  she  continued,  after  a  pause, 
"  if  it  wasn't  for  the  bit  of  a  rug  that's  under 
it,  the  rope  would  have  ground  itself  out  by 
this  time.  And  oh,  but  wouldn't  it  be  tlio 
strange  thing,  Gwynnie  dear,  if  any  thing 
should  happen,  and  him  coming  here  on  such 
an  errand  ?  It  would  be  so  very — very — sad, 
wouldn't  it,  Gwynnie  darling?  " 

Bessie  did  not  seem  now  to  expect  any 
reply  to  her  remarks  in  words,  but  contented 
herself  with  watching  Gwyn's  face.  That 
face  changed  not,  except,  if  possible,  to  grow 
more  ar.d  more  stern  and  dark  at  every  new 
word  of  hers.  Was  there  a  struggle  going  on 
witliin  him  at  that  hour  ?  Was  his  evil  ge- 
nius struggling  with  his  better  self?  lie  said 
nothing,  nor  did  he  try  to  distract  his  thoughts 
by  any  converse  with  the  bright  and  pleasant 
being  at  his  sid'*  who  still  showed  the  sama 


m\ 


164 


AX   OPEX   QUESTION'. 


Bunliglit  in  lier  eyes,  auJ  the  same  smile  ou 
her  face. 

"  It's  so  very,  very  small  a  thing,"  she 
continued,  "  that  saves  him.  It's  the  bit  of 
a  rug,  so  it  is — nothing  more.  It'.s  the  rug 
that — that  keeps  dear  dai-ling  Kane  from — 
from  being  talien  from  us,  isn't  it,  (iwynuio 
darling?" 

"  I  wonder  how  far  he  is  down,"  she  con- 
tinued; "  sure,  but  wasn't  it  mad  in  liiin  to 
go,  and  the  rope  so  tliin?  Sure,  and  if  it 
wasn't  for  the  bit  of  a  rug,  where'd  he  be 
now  ?  So  thin  it  is,  and  so  small,  and  so 
easily  cut — " 

As  Bessie  said  this,  Gwyn  turned  his  face 
and  looked  at  her  with  a  terrible  glance.  His 
face  was  ghastly  pale,  and  big  drops  of  per- 
spiration covered  his  brow.  15essie  looked  at 
him  with  her  usual  calm,  clear  gaze,  and  with 
the  same  pleasant  smile. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  look  at  me  so, 
Gwynnie  dearest,"  said  she,  at  length  ;  "  you 
really  make  me  feel  quite  nervous.  Come 
and  let  us  take  a  peep  down  and  see  where 
poor,  dear  Kane  is.     Come." 

She  started  off  toward  the  edge  of  the  cliff 
where  the  rope  went  over.  For  a  iTioment 
Owyn  gasped  for  breath.  Then  he  said,  in  a 
harsh,  hoarse  voice : 

"  Don't  go ! " 

"  Oh,  but  I  just  will  then,"  said  Bessie, 
with  a  laugh.  "  Sure,  I'm  not  a  bit  afraid, 
though  you  socrn  to  be.  Do  you  know, 
Gwynnie  dear,  I  begin  to  think  you're  a  sad 
coward,  so  I  do  ?  " 

■VVith  these  words  she  tripped  lightly  tow- 
ard the  rope. 

"  Bessie,  come  back  ! "  cr'ed  Gwj"n,  stern- 

ly. 

"  Sure,  I'll  go  back  to  you  in  a  minuto,  so 
I  will.  I  just  want  to  take  one  peep,  and  I'll 
show  that  I'm  braver  than  you,  so  I  will." 

With  these  words  she  stooped  down,  and 
knelt  by  tlie  rope,  just  at  the  edge  of  tlio 
cliff,  and  bent  her  head  down  low.  Iler  left 
hand  rested  on  the  rug,  her  right  on  the  rock. 

Gwyn  stood  like  one  paralyzed  ;  there  was 
a  terrible  thouglit  in  his  mind  ;  he  looked  at 
her  with  a  wild,  glassy  stare  of  hormr. 

After  a  few  moments  Bessie  drew  back 
licr  head,  and  turned  and  looked  at  Gwyn 
with  a  bright  smile.  Then,  still  holding  her 
loft  hand  on  the  rug,  she  put  her  right  hand 
into  her  pocket,  as  though  she  intended  to 
draw  out  something. 


'What  that  something  might  be  had  in  an 
instant  suggested  itself  to  Gwyn's  wild  fancy. 
A  groan  burst  from  him. 

He  sprang  toward  her,  and,  before  she 
could  be  aware  of  liis  intention,  before  she 
could  even  shrink  back,  there  was  a  wild  and 
terrible  cry  in  her  cars.  She  felt  herself 
seized  in  a  fierce  and  resistless  grasp,  and 
torn  from  the  ground.  It  was  Gwyn's  hand, 
the  hand  which  never  before  had  touehec  her 
save  in  love  and  tenderness,  that  now  grasped 
her  with  the  fury  of  despair.  He  seized  her 
in  his  arms.  For  a  moment  he  hold  lier  up- 
lifted from  the  ground,  and  Bessie  could  sec 
his  face,  and  she  saw  in  it  that  which  made 
her  think  that  ho  was  about  to  fling  her  over 
the  precipice.  For  a  moment  he  held  her 
there,  and  a  shriek  burst  from  her  wliicli  was 
wrung  out  by  pain  and  by  terror.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  held  her — one  single  moment — and 
then  he  hurled  her  violently  away  from  him. 

She  fell  to  the  ground  headlong  and  heav- 
ily.    She  lay  senseless. 

Iler  beautiful  face,  marble  white,  lay  with 
her  check  on  the  hard  ground  ;  and  her  little 
hand,  tlie  right  hand,  which  she  had  inserted 
in  her  pocket,  still  held  in  its  grasp  a  simple 
handkcrcliicf. 

For  a  moment  Gwyn  stood  horror-struck, 
then  he  staggered  toward  her  and  raised  her 
up.  The  handkerchief  in  licr  haiul  had  in  it 
something  piteous ;  lie  had  imagined  some- 
thing else  tliero.  He  had  imagined  horror.s 
unspeakable.  And  this  was  all.  Trembling 
from  head  to  foot,  lie  gently  laid  her  down 
again,  and  kissed  her  pale  face  fondly,  and 
tenderly  examinod  her  to  see  if  had  re- 
ceived any  injury.  But,  even  at  th'\t  dread 
moment,  there  was  in  his  mind  the  presence 
of  the  evil  thought  which  all  day  long  hai! 
darkened  his  soul ;  and,  obeying  a  sudden 
impulse,  he  rushed  once  more  to  the  edge  of 
the  cliff  and  looked  down. 


cnArTr;R  xi,. 


[itEXEWlNO    IIIJ    VOITH. 

MKAXWiiir.K  Kane  had  gone  steadily  down 
on  his  adventurous  descent.  The  rope  liad 
been  formed  on  the  model  of  the  one  which 
he  had  used  when  a  boy,  and  was  very  well 
adapted  for  such  a  purpose.  The  knots  and 
loops  which  occurred  at  intervals  enabled  him 


!l    ! 


mil  in  an 
ild  fancy. 

loro   she 

« 

lore  she 

wild  and 
t  liei'Sc'U' 
rasp,  mid 

n's  hand, 
uclici  lier 
w  grasped 

eized  her 
Id  her  u|i- 

could  see 

ich  made 
g  her  over 
I  held  her 
which  was 

VoT  a  mo- 
ment— and 
i'rom  him. 
5  and  heav- 

te,  lay  with 
id  her  little 
lad  iu.=nrtcd 
3p  a  simple 

)rror-struck, 

li  raised  her 

nd  had  in  it 

Joined  sonie- 

ned  horror.s 

Trembling 

d  her  down 

fondly,  and 

had  re- 

L  tlifxt  dread 

the  presence 

lay  long  haii 

ig  a  sudden 

I  the  edge  of 


RKNEWIXG  ms   YOUTH. 


165 


teadily  down 
he  rope  had 
lie  one  whicii 
ras  very  well 
le  knots  and 
s  enabled  him 


to  maintain  a  firmer  hold  than  would  other- 
wise have  been  possible,  and  to  secure  an  oc- 
casional rest  even  for  his  feet.  Gradually,  as 
he  went  down,  he  became  aware  of  one  cir- 
cumstance which  troubled  him  not  a  little. 
This  was  the  vibration  of  the  rope.  With 
his  weight  at  the  end,  he  found  himself  vi- 
brating to  and  fro  like  the  pendulum  of  a 
clock,  and  the  farther  he  descended  the  lon- 
ger did  these  vibrations  grow.  But  he  was 
not  one  who  could  easily  give  up  any  under- 
taking upon  which  he  had  once  fairly  entered, 
and  so,  in  spite  of  this,  he  still  continued  to 
descend.  Fortunate  was  it  for  him  that  he 
had  guarded  against  the  twisting  or  untwist- 
ing of  the  rope,  by  which  a  rotatory  motion 
might  have  been  given  to  him,  in  which  case 
he  could  scarcely  have  saved  himself  from 
dizziness,  but  .Iiis  he  had  contrived  to  pre- 
vent by  doubling  and  knotting  the  rope. 

lie  continued,  therefore,  without  stopping, 
though,  at  length,  tlie  long  vibrations  of  the 
rope  grew  somewhat  troublesome.  At  first, 
these  oscillations  had  taken  place  in  a  line 
which  was  parallel  to  the  face  of  the  cliff,  but, 
as  he  went  farther  down,  this  line  of  motion 
gradually  changed  to  one  which  drew  in  more 
toward  the  clill';  and  finally,  as  he  swung  in, 
liis  feet  touched  the  rock.  An  oscillation  in 
this  direction  favored  his  purpose,  and  he 
sought  to  preserve  it  for  the  remainder  of  the 
■way.  Ke  continued  descending,  therefce, 
until  at  length  he  found  himself  opposite  the 
famous  place  known  as  the  Witch's  Hole. 

This  place  was  very  peculiarly  situated. 
It  was  a  recess  in  the  face  of  the  cliff,  to 
which  there  was  no  access  whatever  except 
in  some  such  way  as  this.  Tlie  sides  receded 
all  around  the  cave  for  some  eight  or  ten  feet, 
and  there  was  no  foothold  except  on  the  floor 
of  the  cave  at  its  mouth.  This  was  only  a 
small  space  about  six  feet  wide,  and  was  so 
difficult  of  access  that  one  single  occupant 
could  easily  have  defended  himself  against 
any  number  of  assailants.  As  Kane  reached 
a  point  opposite  this  place,  the  vibrations  of 
the  line  backward  and  forward  brought  him 
altornntely  to  and  from  the  cave.  This  oscil- 
lation he  increaecd  by  working  his  body  in 
tliat  fashion  which  is  used  on  a  swing,  and 
thus  he  swung  himself  nearer  and  nearer.  At 
length  his  feet  touched  the  rock  on  one  side, 
and  he  was  able  to  kick  himself  ofl'  in  such  a 
way  as  to  direct  the  next  movement  toward 
the  cave.     In  this  lie  was  successful,  and  the 


next  inward  swing  brought  his  feet  to  the 
cave  floor.  Still  this  was  not  enough,  for  the 
impetus  had  not  been  sufficient  to  give  him  ii 
foothold.  lie  therefore  kicked  himself  ofT 
once  more  with  all  hia  strength.  lie  swung 
far  out,  and  then,  as  he  swung  back  again,  ho 
watched  closely,  and  held  himself  all  gathered 
up  to  take  advantage  of  any  opportunity  of 
landing  on  the  floor  of  the  cave.  This  time 
he  was  swung  inside,  within  reach  of  a  rough 
rock  on  one  side  of  the  mouth  of  the  cave. 
This  rock  he  caught  at  with  bis  feet.  For  a 
moment  ho  held  himself  there,  and  then  grad- 
ually let  himself  down,  until  at  length  he 
reached  the  floor  of  the  cave.  He  then  care- 
fully pulled  in  the  rope,  and  fastened  it  about 
this  very  rock. 

lie  had  reached  it  at  last,  but  the  effort 
had  been  an  exhaustive  one,  especially  these 
last  exertions  in  swinging  himself  into  the 
cave.  He  sat  down  for  a  short  time  and 
rested,  and  looked  all  around. 

The  cave  was  not  large.  In  fact  it  was 
rather  a  recess  than  a  cave,  and  was  merely  a 
fissure  in  the  cliff,  the  bottom  of  which  had 
filled  up  with  rubbish  sufficient  to  form  a 
floor.  Above,  its  sides  ran  up  till  they  met 
one  another  at  a  sharp  angle.  The  depth  of 
the  fissure  was  about  twenty-five  or  thirty 
feet,  and  its  width  some  eight  or  ten  feet. 
There  was  nothing  more  to  see  than  this,  and 
it  was  hardly  worth  the  risk  of  a  life. 

Ferhaps,  if  the  history  of  this  cave  could 
have  beeu  told,  the  story  would  have  been 
one  quite  as  interesting  as  any  of  the  legends 
about  the  witch  which  had  grown  up  around 
it.  Its  very  inaccessibility  had  probably 
caused  it  to  be  the  lurking-place  of  fugitives 
in  ages  of  the  past.  It  required  only  the  res- 
olution to  descend  as  Kane  had  done,  and 
then  they  were  safe.  Still  better  would  it 
have  been  for  any  fugitive  here  to  keep  a  rope 
hanging  down  to  the  ground  below,  and  come 
and  go  in  that  way.  It  was  not  impossible, 
therefore,  or  even  unlikely,  that  this  cave  had 
been  the  scene  of  extraordinary  events  in  the 
past,  and  that  this  floor,  if  it  were  dug  up, 
might  disclose  articles  of  human  workman- 
ship— arrow-heads,  stone  weapons,  earthen 
pottery — or  any  other  things  which  may  bo 
left  to  mark  the  place  where  man  has  once 
been.  Celts  may  have  fled  here  from  Saxons, 
Saxon.s  from  Normans.  This  may  have  been 
the  refuge  of  fugitives  in  the  Wars  of  the 
Hoses,  or  in   the  wars  of  the  Parliament. 


;!<■•' 


¥9 


■?ll 


u 


see 


AX  OrEX  QUESTION'. 


Protestant  or  Ciitholic  might  have  found  here 
a  safe  hiding-place  from  religious  persecu- 
tion ;  here  the  hermit  of  the  middle  ages,  the 
witch  of  the  Stuart  period,  and  the  outlaw 
of  a  later  age,  may  all  have  succeeded  to  one 
another. 

Kane,  however,  had  not  come  as  an  ex- 
plorer, nor  as  an  archicologist.  lie  had  not 
come  even'  out  of  bravado,  though  it  might 
have  seemed  so.  He  had  come  to  reach  out 
a  hand  to  his  lost  boyhood  ;  to  bring  back  a 
vanished  past.  lie  had  come  to  renew  his 
youth,  to  repeat  his  boyish  exploit — above  all, 
to  get  his  knife,  left  here  long  years  before. 
He  did  not  allow  himself  much  time  for  rest- 
ing. A  few  minutes  suiRced,  after  which  he 
rose  and  walked  farther  in. 

He  went  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  cave, 
and  then  scanned  the  rocky  wall  carefully. 
He  was  anxious  to  see  ■whether  that  memo- 
rial of  his  former  visit  which  he  had  left  here 
was  still  visible.  His  curiosity  was  rewarded. 
There  on  the  dark  rock,  cut  in  largo,  bold 
letters,  he  read  that  memorial  —  his  own 
name: 

"  KANE  RUTIIVEN"." 

He  stood  looking  at  it  for  some  time  with 
varying  emotions,  while  all  that  past  came 
back  before  him — that  briglit  past,  which 
Bessie  had  been  assisting  him,  or  rather  en- 
couraging him,  to  recall.  Tlio  sight  of  this 
name  suggested  that  other  object  of  his  search 
— the  knife.  He  looked  down.  For  some 
time  he  saw  no  signs  of  any  thing ;  but,  at 
length,  an  object  met  his  sight,  lying  close 
against  the  rock,  and  looking  like  a  stone. 
He  picked  this  up. 

It  was  his  knife. 

Dust  and  mud  had  caked  about  it,  and 
tho  blades  and  springs  were  all  rui!ted  to- 
gether; but,  nevertheless,  it  was  his  own 
knife — the  very  knife  which  ho  had  carried 
down  here  as  a  boy,  and  with  which  ho  had 
carved  that  name.  He  looked  at  it  with  a 
pensive  gaze,  and  then  slowly  returned  to  the 
mout''  of  the  cave.  Hero  he  sat  for  some 
time,  looking  out.  But  it  was  not  the  scene 
outside,  magnificent  though  it  was,  whi.-'h  met 
his  eyes.  His  gaze  was  fixed  upon  vacancy, 
and,  if  he  saw  any  thing,  it  was  the  forms 
and  scenes  of  the  past  which  his  memory 
brought  up  before  him. 

At  length,  he  started  up.  There  was 
nothing  more  to  be  done  here,  or  to  be  seen. 


He  had  exhausted  the  possibilities  of  tho 
place,  and  had  gained  the  object  of  his  daring 
exploit.  Nothing  remained  now  but  to  re- 
turn. This  was  far  less  difficult  than  tno 
descent.  He  had  no  trouble  now  about  di- 
recting his  course.  At  first,  as  he  let  him- 
self out,  the  long  swing  of  the  rope  was  troub- 
lesome, ,  ii!  'fs  rf^turn  swing  threatened  to 
drive  him  t  '.  h  somewhat  too  great  force 
against  tl.j  ocl.s;  but  this  ho  guarded 
against,  and,  as  ho  steadily  ascended,  the 
oscillations  grow  gr.'ulually  less. 

At  length,  he  reached  the  top  -jf  the 
cliff. 

As  his  heal  ro?c  above  it,  he  expected  to 
see  Gwyn  and  Bessie;  he  expected  to  feel 
their  eager  Lands  pulling  at  him  to  help  him  ; 
to  hear  their  words  of  encouragement,  of 
wonder,  of  congratulation ;  to  see  their  faces 
full  of  sympathy  and  delight,  Bessie  with  her 
gentle  and  merry  glance,  (!wyn  with  his  broad, 
fVank  face  and  hearty,  loving  ways.  All  this 
he  expected  to  see. 

But  there  was  no  voice  sent  down  as  ho 
nearcd  the  summit;  no  hands  were  out- 
stretched ;  no  faces  full  of  welcome  smiles 
were  there.  Tiicrc  was  silence,  and  it  was 
not  until  he  had  clambered  up  and  looked 
around  that  ho  saw  what  scene  had  been 
awaiting  him  here  on  the  top  of  the  cliff. 

This  is  what  he  .«aw  : 

A  prostrate  female  form,  and,  kneeling  by 
her  side,  a  man  with  a  ghastly  face  and  u 
look  of  horror.  Kane  saw  that  this  man  was 
Gwyn;  yet  so  appalling  was  the  change  which 
had  taken  place  in  him  that  he  stood  dumb 
with  amazement.  For  Gwyn  seemed  ten 
years,  or  twenty  years,  older  than  when 
Kane  had  loft  him.  To  his  fresh,  boyish 
look  had  succeeded  a  grim,  austere  face — a 
face  that  had  a  grayish  tinge  over  its  pallor; 
and  over  it  there  was  spread  an  exiuession 
that  was  not  like  any  thing  which  Kane  had 
ever  before  «een  in  any  hui  lan  face.  And,  as 
he  looked,  there  came  across  him,  like  a  sud- 
den flash,  the  thought  that  it  looked  like  the 
face  of  a  man  who  had  been  tempted  of  the 
devil,  and  had  seen  him  face  to  face. 

Thus,  then,  it  was  that  Kane  came  back  to 
Gwyn  und  liossie. 

Kane  walked  slowly  toward  his  brother. 
Thus  far  Gwyn  had  stared  at  him  with  a 
dazed  look ;  but  now,  as  he  approached,  he 
jumped  up  hastily  from  Bessie's  siile,  and 
hurrieil  to  meet  him.    There  was  a  piteous 


:: 


1 


of  tlio 

5  dariiif; 
it  to  rv- 
tlian  tiie 
about  di- 

lot  him- 
•as  troub- 
itcneil  to 
cat  force 

f^uardoil 
nded,  the 

p    .jf   tlie 

poctcd  to 
ed  to  feel 

liclp  him ; 
ciiient,  of 
their  fiicea 
ic  witli  her 
1  his  broad, 
All  this 

own  as  he 
wore  out- 
omc  smiles 
and  it  was 
and  looked 
c  had  been 
he  clifT. 

kneeling  by 

face  and  a 
Ids  man  was 
hanpc  which 
stood  duml) 
Boomed    ten 

tlian  when 
resh,  boyish 
itere  face — a 
r  its  pallor; 
1  expression 
h  Kane  had 
cc.  And,  as 
I,  like  a  sud- 
kcd  like  the 
iptcd  of  the 
ice. 
amo  back  to 

Ills  brother, 
him  witli  a 
proachod,  he 
■'s  side,  and 
as  a  piteous 


REXEWIXG  HIS  YOUTH. 


187 


expression  now  on  his  face — one  of  cag.'r 
welcome  tliat  seemed  stnifrRling  to  surmount 
his  despair.  He  grasped  Kane's  hand  con- 
vulsively in  both  of  his,  and  gazed  at  him 
with  an  indescribable  look.  Kano  felt  be- 
wildered. AH  this  was  incomprehensible. 
llo  could  only  sec  that  some  disaster  had 
happened.  The  prostrate  form  of  Bessie 
Bhowed  that  she  was  concerned  in  this,  and 
the  anguish  of  Gwyn  was  intelligible  enough 
on  that  ground ;  yet  he  could  not  help  feeling 
astonished  that  <!wyn  could  have  the  heart, 
under  such  circumstances,  to  think  of  him, 
much  loss  to  come  and  welcome  him  back  so 
eagerly.  He  could  not  possibly  know  what 
liad  occurred,  nor  could  he  even  conjocturo 
the  inconceivable  importance  which  his  re- 
appearance had  in  Gwyn's  eyes. 

"Heavens!"  ciicd  Kane.  "What's  all 
this  ?     AVhat  has  happened  to  her  ?  " 

Ho  thought  only  of  ]5essie  now.  With 
this  thought,  he  wondered  at  (iwyn's  apparent 
forgctfulness  of  her ;  and  so  he  tore  his  hand 
from  his  brother's  grasp,  somewhat  impa- 
tiently, and  hurried  over  to  the  prostrate  form, 

Bessie  was  lying  on  her  back,  with  her 
face  upturned.  Her  03x8  were  closed ;  her 
lips  were  slightly  parted  ;  the  roseate  hue  of 
her  cheeks  had  given  place  to  a  waxen  pal- 
lor; and  her  waving  hair  flowed  like  a  flood 
of  golilcn  glory  about  her  forehead  and  neck 
and  shoulders.  She  was  motionless  ;  she  was 
senseless.    It  was  a  piteous  spcctaelo. 

Piteous,  indeed,  it  seemed  to  Kano,  who 
bent  over  her  with  his  mind  full  of  remem- 
brances of  her  last  appearance,  and  thoughts 
of  the  contrast  between  that  and  this — the 
glow  of  health,  the  blue  eyes  fixed  on  him  in 
their  mirthful  innocence,  the  red  lips  curved 
into  merry  smiles,  the  dimpled,  rosy  eliccks, 
the  laughter,  the  jestings — above  all,  the  ten- 
der, loving  way  of  referring  all  her  thoughts 
and  all  her  joys  to  that  husband  whom  she 
loved  so  devotedly.  And  here  she  was  now  ! 
What  was  the  meaning  of  it  ?  Here  was 
Gwyn,  crushed.  Well  he  might  be.  Yet,  what 
did  it  all  mean  ? 

These  thoughts  fdled  hi^  mind  as  he  knelt 
by  Bessie's  side  and  chafed  her  hands.  But, 
though  Gwyn  also  united  his  efforts  with  those 
of  Kane,  there  did  not  appear  any  signs  of 
returning  animation;  and,  at  length,  Kano 
advised  an  immediiito  return  to  IJuthven 
Towers,  carrying  her  with  them  as  best  they 
could ;    for   there  restoratives  could  be  ob- 


tained which  were  not  to  bo  found  elsewhere. 
To  this  Gwyn  at  once  acceded.  Kane  was 
about  to  help  him  carry  Bessio  down  to  tho 
carriage;  but  this  Gwyn  would  not  allow. 
The  proposal  seemed  to  excite  in  him  n  re- 
pugnance so  strong  that  it  amounted  to  noth- 
ing  less  than  horror;  and  Kane,  who  could 
not  help  noticing  it,  was  filled  with  new  as- 
tonishment. Gwyn,  however,  said  nothing; 
and,  indeed,  ho  had  not  spoken  a'word  all 
this  time.  Stolidly  and  silently  he  bent  down, 
and,  ciicircling  the  slender  form  of  bis  sense- 
less wife  in  his  strong  arms,  liftea  her  lightly 
and  easily,  and  then  carried  her  to  the  car- 
riage at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 

Buthven  T'lwers  was  not  very  far  away, 
and  the  carriage  drove  there  rapidlj*.  Gwyn 
held  Bessie  in  his  arms  all  the  way,  and 
looked  at  her  with  a  mixture  of  helplessness 
and  agony.  On  reaching  their  destination  ho 
earricil  her  himself  up  to  her  own  room,  and 
connnitted  her  to  the  care  of  her  attendants. 
A  doctor  was  hastily  sent  for,  and  Gwyn 
waited  in  despair  for  the  result. 

Meanwhile,  Kano  was  waiting  below  in  a 
state  of  the  deepest  anxiety  and  suspense. 
Dinner  came  and  went,  and  Kane  was  alone 
at  that  repast.  Xot  long  after,  Gwyn  made 
his  appearance.  He  informed  Kane  gravely 
that  the  doctor  had  come  and  hail  found  Bos- 
sie  recovered  from  her  swoon;  he  had  given 
her  a  sleeping-draught,  and  she  had  been 
sleeping  ever  since.  The  doctor  did  not  an- 
ticipate any  serious  results,  and  hoped  that 
in  two  or  three  days  she  would  be  herself 
again. 

To  Kane's  anxious  inquiries  as  to  the 
cause  of  the  accident,  Gwyn  replied  in  some- 
what vague  and  incoherent  terms,  for  he  was 
very  awkward  at  evading  the  +v','.*h,  and  un- 
skilled in  deceit  of  any  kind.  From  what  he 
did  say,  however,  Kane  gathered  the  informa- 
tion that  she  had  stumbled  somehow  against 
the  rope,  and  in  lulling  had  struck  her  head. 
Of  the  part  that  Gwyn  had  taken  in  this  affair 
he  had  not  the  remotest  idea. 

All  that  night  (iwyn  remained  awake, 
hovering  about  "^  the  neighborhood  of  Bes- 
sie's room,  and  anxiously  watching  the  prog- 
ress of  affairs.  Every  thing  went  on  well, 
Bessie  slept  soundly.  Her  face  had  regained 
its  usual  color,  and  she  showed  no  trace  of 
injury.  At  length  he  felt  so  hopeful  about 
her  that  he  went  to  bed.  It  was  about  dawn 
v.hen  he  retired,  and  he  slept  until  late  in  tho 


i^ 


■F 


; 


I     i 


iS  \\ 


:  ■  ■ 

!  ; '^^ 

It  >      .  '   I 


168 


AX   OPEX   QUESTIOX. 


following  iliiy.  Ilia  first  tlioiightH  wore  about 
Bessie,  nnd,  hastily  dressing,  he  liunieJ  iit 
onec  to  licr  room. 

Jiut  there  awaited  hiiu  a  great  surprise. 
On  reaching  the  room  tlie  Iiouse-ivceper 
met  him  and  handed  him  a  note.  At  the 
8amc  time  stic  informed  him  that  Lady  Ruth- 
ven  liad  passed  a  very  coinlbrtablo  night,  and 
Imd  awaliened  early,  feeling  so  well  tliiit  she 
had  gone  out  for  a  drive,  and  liad  not  re- 
turned. 

Ciwyn  was  conii)leteIy  overwhelmed  by 
this  intelligence.  Jle  took  tlie  letter,  and, 
looking  at  his  watch,  found  that  it  was  two 
o'clock.  On  inquiring  about  tlio  time  when 
Bessie  had  left,  he  learned  that  it  was  about 
si.K  o'clock  in  the  morning.  So  long  an  ab- 
Bencc,  under  such  circumstances,  excited  his 
worst  fears,  and  the  despairing  thouglit  arose 
that  Bessie  had  punished  him  lor  hi.s  violence 
by  deserting  him  forever.  lie  hurried  to  his 
room  witli  the  letter,  and  for  some  time  was 
afraid  to  open  it,  for  fear  that  he  sliould  read 
his  doom.  At  length  he  could  no  longer  en- 
dure the  suspense,  and,  tearing  it  open,  he 
read  the  following ; 

"I'm  quite  myself  again,  Gwynnie  dear- 
est, so  tliere's  no  use  in  life  for  you  to  be 
vorrying  about  me.  I'm  going  out  for  a 
drive,  and  may  not  bo  back  for  a  few  days. 
Tlie  fact  is,  after  wliat  has  happened,  I  liave 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  a  sliort  separa- 
tion will  be  best  for  botli  of  us.  Do  you 
know,  Gwynnie  darling,  I  really  tiiiuk  you 
must  have  been  insane,  and  your  liead  was  full 
of  horrid  fancies.  You  had  some  awful  idea 
about  uie  which  I  do  not  like  to  think  of.  It 
was  a  terrible  mistake,  so  it  was.  I  hope 
that,  if  you  are  by  yourself  for  a  little  while, 
you  will  see  how  very,  very  wrong  you  were, 
aud  how  fearfully  you  have  misunderstood  your 
poor  Bessie.  Adieu,  then,  Gwynnie  dearest, 
aud  an  rcvoir.  I  forgive  all,  and  love  you 
with  all  my  heart,  dear.  Don't  forget, 
"  Your  own  loving 

"  Bessie." 

This  letter  drove  away  the  worst  part  of 
Gwyn's  distress,  but  still  there  remained  the 
deepest  longing  to  see  her,  and  the  strongest 
anxiety  about  her  health.  The  very  forgive- 
ness which  she  granted  him  increased  these 
desires  after  her,  and  he  hurried  at  once  to 
the  stables.  Here,  to  his  intense  joy,  he 
found  that  the  carriage  had  returned  in  which 


Bessie  had  gone,  and  that  it  had  only  taken 
her  to  Mordaunt  Manor,  whereupon  he  mount- 
ed a  horse  and  rode  theie  with  the  utmost 
speed. 

On  reaching  Mordaunt  Manor  tlie  porter 
handed  him  a  letter,  and  informed  hiiu  that 
Lady  Ruthven  had  gone  away  along  with  Mrs. 
Lugrin,  leaving  tills  for  him.  It  was  only  witii 
a  violent  efl'ort  that  Gwyn  concealed  the  emo- 
tion which  ho  felt  at  this  intelligence,  and, 
taking  the  letter  in  silence,  ho  turned  away, 
full  of  wonder  and  apprehension.  He  had 
come,  full  of  love  and  longing,  to  hear  Bes- 
sie's words  of  forgiveness,  and  to  bring  her 
back.  But  sliewas  gone,  and  ho  turned  away 
with  an  appalling  sense  of  desolation.  AVliat 
did  this  mean  ?  Had  she  cone  back  from 
her  word  ?  Had  Mrs.  Lugrin  persuaded  her 
to  retract  her  forgiveness  and  punish  him 
more  severely  ?     This  looked  like  it. 

But  sjicculation  was  idle.  Hero  was  her 
letter  in  his  hand,  and  she  herself  spoke 
tlieie. 

He  tore  it  open  aud  read  : 

"Gwynnie  darling:  Wlien  you  get  this 
I  shall  be  on  my  way  to  Paris.  Do  not 'be  at 
all  uneasy  about  me,  darling,  for  I  assure  you 
I  am  quite  myself  again.  If  you  liad  been 
awake  this  morning  I  would  have  explained, 
but  you  were  asleep,  and  I  kissed  you  for 
good-by,  dearest. 

"  You  see,  I  feel  awfully  uneasy  about 
poor,  dear,  darling  Inez,  and  I  am  frantic  to 
see  her ;  and,  when  I  came  here,  I  found  Mrs. 
Lugrin  willing  to  accompany  me,  so  I  decided 
to  go.  You  and  dear  Kane  will  conic  on  im- 
mediately, of  course,  for  I  know,  (Jwynnie 
dearest,  you  will  be  quite  unable  to  live  more 
than  two  or  three  days  without  me  ;  so,  when 
you  come,  you  will  find  me  with  my  mamma's 
papa,  dear  Grandpa  Magrath,  at  tlie  Hotel 
Gascoigne,  1'25  Rue  de  la  Ferroniere.  And 
now,  once  more,  good-by,  darling,  and  don't 
forget,  Your  own  loving 

"  Bessie, 

"  P.  S. — You  may  as  well  show  this  to  dear 
old  Kane,  Gwynnie  darling,  for  it  will  explain 
my  somewhat  abrupt  departure.  Once  more, 
good-by.  Bessie," 


-A. 


RKrEXTANCE. 


109 


only  taken 

n  he  mount- 

t1m  utmost 

r  the  povlor 
;d  him  that 
ig  with  Mrs. 
as  only  with 
lod  the  eino- 
ligencc,  and, 
urned  away, 
n.  He  had 
to  hear  Hcs- 
o  bring  her 
turned  away 
ition.  AVluit 
t  l)ack  from 
TSiiaded  her 
punish  him 
0  it. 

Icrc  was  her 
erself  spoke 


you  get  this 
I)o  not  1)6  at 
I  assure  you 
ou  had  been 
c  explained, 
sscd  you  foi" 

noasy  about 
iin  frantic  to 

I  found  Mrp. 

so  I  decided 

come  on  im- 
3W,  Cwynnie 

to  live  more 

[ic  ;  so,  when 

my  mamma's 

the  Hotel 

DUiere.     And 

g,  and  don't 


CIIAl'TER  XLI. 


llEPENTANCi:. 


Bessie. 

V  this  to  dear 
t  will  explain 

Once  more, 

Bessie." 


On  turning  away  from  Mordaunt  Manor, 
Owyn  was  quite  unconscious  of  the  way  in 
which  ho  was  going;  and,  if  his  horse  di- 
rected his  steps  homeward,  it  was  more  from 
his  own  inclination  tlian  from  any  direction 
of  his  rider.  As  for  Cwyn,  his  thoughts  were 
busy  with  the  events  and  experiences  of  the 
previous  da}'.  Ho  went  over  all  that  ho  had 
thought,  and  said,  and  done  ;  he  recalled  all 
Bessie's  words,  and  acts,  and  looks;  he  ar- 
raigned himself  and  her  before  the  bar  of  his 
conscience,  and  passed  every  thing  in  review 
up  to  that  culuiinaling  scene  on  the  preci- 
pice. 

A  dark  thought  had  been  suggested  to 
liira.  It  had  come  first  from  Bessie,  when 
she  lamented  the  prospect  that  was  now  be- 
fore them,  when  she  recoiled  from  the  thought 
of  poverty,  and  preferred  that  evil  should  hap- 
pen to  Kane  rather  than  to  them.  This  thought 
had  passed  into  Gwyn's  mind,  and  had  taken 
root  there.  Thus  far  he  had  been  an  honor- 
able gentleman,  with  an  u|)riglit  and  loyal 
soul ;  but  all  men  liave  tlieir  peculiar  temp- 
tations, and  this  proved  to  lie  the  very  one 
which  was  most  dangerous  to  liim.  It  came 
so  insidiously,  it  came  from  her  whom  ho 
adored  and  idolized,  it  was  enforced  by  her 
grief,  her  tears,  and  her  loving  caresses.  In 
the  midst  of  their  liappiness  one  had  come 
who  was  to  expel  them  from  their  ])aradisc, 
and  Bessie's  nature  could  not  endure  the 
thought.  So  this  temptation  had  come  most 
insidiously,  most  powerfully;  and,  having 
once  entered  into  his  mind,  it  had  taken  root, 
and  grown,  strengthened,  and  fostered,  and 
developed,  by  events  and  by  words  in  which 
both  Kane  and  Bessie  had  borne  a  part. 

Tlius  the  thought,  "  If  ho  had  never  come," 
became  a  wish :  "  Oh,  that  he  had  never 
come!"  "Oh,  that  ho  had  been  dead 
when  we  supposed  him  to  be  ! "  "  Oh,  that 
he  wei'c  dead  now  !  "  It  thus  grew  and  en- 
larged itself,  until  Gwyn  found  Mriself  at 
last  wishing  for  the  death  of  that  very  broth- 
er over  whose  return  he  had  but  lately  re- 
joiced with  sincere  and  enthusiastic  Joy. 

It  was  Bessie  who  shaped  his  thoughts  to 
this  ;  it  was  Bessie  who  was  the  cause  of  this 
wish,  who  alone  gave  it  any  point  or  mean- 
ing.   He  could  not  bear  to  see  ber  tears.    He 


could  not  bear  the  tlionght  of  any  misfortune 
befalling  her.  He  had  bri)iighl  her  hero  to  a 
home  which  kIk;  Iov(hI,  and  he  could  not  bear 
to  see  her  expelled. 

Then  caino  circumstances  which  d.anged 
the  secret  wish  into  a  temptation  to  act. 
There  was,  above  all,  the  proposal  to  go  over 
the  clilf.  Had  it  not  been  for  this,  Cwyn's 
wish  might  have  eventually  died  a  natural 
deith  from  lack  of  opportunity.  But  the 
temptation  came  as  it  conies  to  many  a  man, 
and,  following  close  upon  the  temptation, 
theio  came  also  the  opportunity. 

That  opportunity  reached  its  height  on 
the  top  of  the  cliff  when  Kane's  head  disap- 
peared from  view  as  he  descended  on  his 
perilous  journey.  As  Gwyn  stood  there  in 
gloomy  silence,  he  was  wrestling  with  the 
Temi)ter,  who  now,  in  his  utmost  power,  was 
urging  him  to  act.  This  was  the  conflict  in 
which  he  was  engaged,  and  at  this  moment 
it  was  Bessie  herself  who  interposed  and 
lent  her  aid,  not  to  the  tempted,  but  to  the 
Tempter. 

It  had  been  her  misfortune  all  along  to 
aid  the  Tempter  and  to  weaken  her  husband. 
She  it  was  who  earnestly  urged  Kane  to  his 
adventure  when  she  should  have  dissuaded 
him ;  she  it  was  who  encouraged  him,  and 
jested  with  him  up  to  the  last  moment,  all 
immindful  of  her  husband's  anguish ;  and 
she  it  was  who  now,  at  this  supreme  mo- 
ment. Came  forth  to  deal  a  final  blow  upon 
his  fainting  resolution.  It  was  as  though  the 
Tempter  had  suddenly  assumed  form;  as 
though  the  devil  had  appeared  in  the  shape 
of  an  angel ;  and  not  only  an  angel,  but  more, 
the  one  whom  he  loved  better  than  life,  and 
better  than  his  own  soul — his  beautiful  young 
bride. 

What  was  it  that  she  had  said  ?  She  had 
said  all  that  was  worst  at  such  a  moment. 
Every  word  tl'.at  she  uttered  was  a  sugges- 
tion of  this  opportunity ;  every  word  was  an 
expression  of  that  dark  temptation  whose  ac- 
complishment was  now  so  easy.  Each  word 
that  she  spoke  was  worse  than  its  predcecK- 
sor ;  and,  finally,  at  the  close  of  this  great 
agony  of  soul,  the  climax  was  reached,  when 
she  stepped  to  the  rope  with  the  intention,  as 
he  thought,  of  doing  the  deed  herself.  She 
called  him  "coward"  as  she  turned  away, 
and,  as  she  stooped  to  the  rope,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  her  gentle  smile  concealed  a  terrible 
purpose,  and  that  her  hand  sought  her  pock- 


■tr 


u 


•. 


.     i 

1 

i       !  ■ 

i 

i   :ii 

, 

i  -l 

i 

' 

i 

-1i> 


^       ^r 


170 


AX   OPEX   QUESTION'. 


rt  to  (liiiw  foitli  a  kiiifo.  Tlion  it  was  that 
the  spell  WHS  broken,  tlic  teinptatioii  passed, 
nnd  lio  tore  her  from  the  phice  and  fluiiR  hor 
hcadlon;;. 

Siii'li  was  tlie  history  of  tliis  toinptntion. 
And  wliat  tiion  V  Was  this  po  ?  Was  lies- 
sio  indi'i'J  a  Lady  Macbeth  of  more  delicate 
mould,  leadinp;  on  her  husband  to  crime? 
Was  all  this  froiitlo  pracc,  and  li^dit-hearted 
mirthfulness,  and  ehildlike  innocence,  but  a 
mask?  Heaven  seemed  to  have  poured  its 
own  sunlight  over  her  brow,  and  into  her 
eyes,  and  throuf,'li  her  Iieart ;  was  all  this  but 
a  mockery  ? 

X(i — a  thou?nnd  times  no  !  The  moment 
that  this  thouf;ht  presented  itself,  that  mo- 
ment it  was  cast  out  utterly.  It  was  not 
worth  reasoning  about.  Even  if  his  love  had 
not  assured  him  of  her  innocence  and  trutli, 
he  could  find  countless  ways  of  assuring  him- 
self of  this,  and  of  cxpliiiniii<:f  all. 

She  guilty?  As  well  call  Kane  himself 
puilty.  Her  first  words,  which  had  sujjrcsted 
the  dark  temi)t;ition,  he  now  considered  the 
thoughtless  and  natural  utterances  of  a  na- 
ture too  innocent  to  conceal  any  feelinp;  which 
it  has.  yiie  recoiled,  as  was  natural,  from  so 
great  a  sacrifico.  She  was  mournful,  pettish, 
unreasonable,  like  a  child  in  the  presence  of 
some  task  too  hard  for  its  accomplishment. 
Rhe  had  no  concealment  of  any  thing  from 
her  husband,  and  these  transient  feelings 
were  thus  disclosed  in  the  fond  intimacy  of 
love.  They  passed  away,  for  on  the  next  day 
there  was  not  a  cloud  on  her  brow,  and  her 
manner  toward  Kane  was  as  frank  and  cor- 
dial as  before.  If  the  effect  on  him  was  more 
permanent,  it  was  not  her  fault. 

Then  came  Kane's  proposal  to  scale  the 
clilT',  which  Btssie  warmly  encouraged.  ]!ut 
this  was  Kane's  doing  principally,  and,  if 
IJessio  favored  the  plan,  it  could  hardly  be 
considered  as  a  sign  of  a  guilty  purpose.  So, 
too,  when  Kane  went  down  the  clifT,  Bessie 
remained  and  indulged  in  remarks  which 
Gwyn  now  considered  to  have  been  thought- 
less and  random,  without  the  slightest  idea 
of  any  deeper  meaning.  She  was  playful  and 
quiet  all  the  time  ;  and,  if  any  doubt  remained 
as  to  her  own  utter  freedom  from  guilt,  it  ex- 
isted in  that  final  proof  which  showed  itself 
before  his  eyes  so  pitcously  when  Bessie  lay 
senseless  on  the  rock,  and  the  deadly  knife, 
which  ho  believed  to  be  in  her  hand,  turned 
out  to  be  nothing  more  than  a  handkerchief. 


Between  the  deadly  knife  and  that  soft, 
white,  harmless  handkerchief,  (Iwyn  now  sa\r 
a  din'ercnco  corresponding  with  that  whieli 
existed  between  the  tempting  devil  of  his 
fancy  and  the  soft,  innocent  being  whom  he 
had  so  terribly  wronged. 

Bessie  guilty?  ^Vhat  nuiduess!  Then, 
Kane  was  guilty  too.  Kane  had  as  much 
guilt  as  Bessie.  The  suggestion  had  come, 
and  iho  opportunity,  from  both;  but  both 
were  innocent,  nor  eoulil  they  be  blamed  if 
his  own  mind  had  developed  these  things  into 
criminal  thoughts. 

Consequent  upon  sueli  thoughts  as  these 
came  eiuUcss  self-rtproaeli,  which  had  never 
ceased  to  torment  him  since  he  hail  hurled 
Bcf>-io  senseless  to  the  rock.  Ho  shuddered 
no'  it  his  owni  madness.  A  thrill  of  horror 
p:  1  through  every  nerve  as  he  thought 
ho\,  narrowly  he  had  escaped  being  the  nnir- 
derer,  not  of  Kane,  but  of  Bessie  hersrH", 
There  lived  in  his  memory  a  terrible  pictui  — 
that  scene  on  the  top  of  the  clifl',  where  Bes- 
sie lay,  pallid  as  death,  her  beautiful  face  on 
the  hard  ground,  her  lifeless  hand  outstretched 
and  displaying  in  mute  appeal  that  while  ker- 
chief— fit  en  'deraof  her  innocence — a  piteous 
sight,  ft  sight  of  infinite  pathos,  one  which 
could  never  bo  forgotten. 

Thoughts  like  these  were  terrible,  but 
Owyn  could  not  banish  them.  All  his  blame 
was  for  himself;  nil  his  love,  and  pity,  and 
fond  excuses,  were  for  his  injured  wife.  He 
could  not  blame  her  for  her  departure.  She 
had  wished  it.  Let  it  be.  He  would  submit. 
He  read  her  letter  over  and  over.  It  was  a 
sweet  consolation  to  his  bleeding  heart  that 
she  had  given  him  that  kiss  of  farewell.  It 
was  sweet,  also,  that  she  looked  forward  to 
his  joining  her  at  once.  This  now  was  his 
one  hope,  and  he  could  scarcely  control  the 
impatient  desire  which  he  had  to  follow  her. 
His  feelings  prompted  him  to  sot  out  for  Paris 
at  once,  but  a  moment's  reflection  showed  that 
he  could  not  leave  Kane  so  abruptly  ;  so  he 
had  reluctantly  to  continue  on  the  course 
which  his  horse  had  already  taken  for  him  to 
Ruthven  Towers. 

He  now  began  to  feel  embarrassed  about 
meeting  with  Kane,  for  an  explanation  of 
some  kind  would  bo  necessary  in  order  to 
account  for  the  utter  abruptness  of  Bessie's 
departure ;  and  he  did  not  at  first  see  how 
such  an  cxp'.ination  couUl  be  given  without 
disclosing  things  that  he  very  much  preferred 


RRI'KNTaNCE. 


171 


11(1  tlmt  soft, 
wjn  now  saw 
li  tlmt  which 
devil  of  liis 
iiiij»  wliom  111! 

lurss!  Then, 
had   ns  much 

111  liiul  Odiiie, 
til ;  lull  liotli 
lie  liliiiucd  if 
;sc  things  iuto 

plits  ns  llieso 
leli  hail  never 
ic  hail  liuilcil 
IIo  KluuUlereil 
irill  of  horror 
IS  he  thoupht. 
tieiiig  the  niiir- 
U'fsic  herself, 
rihlo  pictiif'  — 
ill',  nliere  llcs- 
lutil'ul  face  on 
id  outstretched 
that  while  ker- 
•ncc — a  piteons 
09,  one  which 

tcrrililo,  but 
All  his  blame 

and  pity,  and 
ired  wife.  He 
epartnre.  She 
would  submit. 
)vcr.  It  was  a 
np;  heart  that 
f  farewell.  It 
ed  forward  to 
M  now  was  his 
ely  control  the 
1  to  follow  her. 
:ct  out  for  Paris 
on  showed  that 
bruptly  ;  so  he 
on  the  course 
keu  for  hiin  to 

arrapscd  about 
explanation  of 
ry  in  order  to 
less  of  liessie's 
t  first  Bee  how 
!  given  without 
much  preferred 


to  keep  iccrot.  Out,  at  ionptli,  a  very  natu- 
ral way  siipfjestcd  itself,  by  which  he  nii;,'ht 
aicoiiiit  for  it  all;  and  lliis  was  Dossio's  own 
hitter  to  himself.  In  this  last  letter  she  had 
not  referred  in  the  faintest  way  to  the  all'air 
on  the  cliir,  nor  had  she  again  ^M  any  thing 
about  forgiveness.  It  was  a  letter  full  of 
loving  words,  ascribing  her  depart iire  solely 
to  her  anxiety  about  Inez,  and  her  eager  de- 
lire  to  sec  her.  Most  keenly  was  (iwyn  con- 
sciou.^  of  the  delicacy  of  feeling  which  had 
inspired  this  ;  for,  though  ho  was  convinced 
that  the  real  cause  of  her  departure  lay  in 
his  own  treatincnt  of  her,  yet  he  perceived 
that  she  had  adopted  this  alleclion  of  hera 
for  Inez  as  the  real  pretext ;  and  as  her  affec- 
tion for  Inez  was  undoubted,  and  Inez  was  in 
■I  po.sitiou  of  actual  peril,  the  pretext  was 
I  ?ry  way  plausible.  Ho  therefore  concluded 
to  show  the  letter  to  Kane,  and  add  any  fur- 
tlier  explanation  which  might  be  needed,  in 
accordance  with  its  tone.  It  was  evident  to 
liiin  that  Ilessio  had  this  in  her  mind,  and  had 
written  tliis  second  letter,  not  only  to  coiisolo 
him,  but  also  to  smooth  his  path  toward  ex- 
plaining it  to  Kane.  Hy  the  time  that  ho  had 
reached  the  gates  of  Ituthven  Towers,  (inyn 
had  settled  this  in  his  mind,  and  was  there- 
fore in  a  position  to  meet  Kane  without  em- 
barrassment. 

Uleanwhilo,  Kano  had  found  himself  in  a 
most  peqilcxing  situation.  On  w.iking  in  the 
morning,  ho  had  iiKiuirod  afti t  Lady  Eutli- 
ven's  health,  and  had  been  informed  that  she 
was  quite  well  again.  Several  hours  passed, 
anil  ho  learned  that  Sir  Gwyn  was  still  sleep- 
ing. Upon  this,  he  went  off  on  a  long  stroll, 
from  which  he  did  not  return  till  about  four. 
On  coining  back  to  the  house,  there  was  a 
general  air  of  confusion,  which  excited  his 
attention.  On  inquiring  whether  Sir  Gwyn 
was  up,  the  servant  whom  he  asked  informed 
liiin  that  Sir  Gwyn  had  gone  hurriedly  to  Mor- 
dannt  Manor.  Tlie  manner  of  the  servant 
was  so  singular  that  Kano  asked  some  more 
<|uestions,  and  at  length  learned  the  astonish- 
ing news,  which  was  now  whispered  all  througli 
the  house,  that  Lady  Ruthven  hail  gone  away 
at  daybreak,  very  hurriedly,  and  that  her  hus- 
band, on  hearing  about  it,  had  set  out  in  pur- 
suit of  her  in  the  greatest  possible  haste.  All 
this  was  to  Kane  utterly  unintelligible,  and, 
though  the  servants'  gossip  gave  this  story 
the  vcrv  worst  coloring  possible,  he  refused 
to  believe  it.     Still   the  fact  remained  that 


both  had  gone  away  most  obruptly,  without 
a  word  to  him;  and  this  was  the  thing  tliat 
perplexed  him. 

The  relurn  <d' Gwyn  [nit  an  end  to  this. 
Kane  walked  down  to  nice'  liiiii,  as  ho  saw 
him  come  up,  and  could  not  help  noticing  tlio 
great  change  that  had  come  over  his  lirotlier'.s 
face.  At  lirst,  ho  felt  siiiicked,  and  autici- 
pated  the  worst;  but,  as  soon  as  Gwyn  saw 
him,  he  put  ail  these  feelings  to  lliglit  by  the 
first  words  that  he  uttered. 

'MVell,  Kane,"  said  he,  with  an  attempt, 
that  was  not  altogetlier  successful,  at  his  old 
ease  and  cordiality  of  manner,  ''you  must 
have  felt  awfully  puzzled  at  our  disa|ipearance 
in  this  fashion.  liiit  tho  fact  is,  Ilcasic  was 
so  wild  to  see  Inez  that  she  couldn't  wait  for 
us,  and  so  she  has  gone  oil'  to  I'aris.  Slio 
was  all  right  this  morning,  just  as  well  as 
ever;  and  as  I  had  been  up  all  night,  and 
wasn't  awake,  she  quietly  trotted  off  by  her- 
self, went  to  Monlaiint  Mancir,  took  Mrs. 
Lugrin,  and  is  now  ni  route  for  Paris.  Sec — 
hero  is  her  letter.  I  went  olf  after  her,  but 
was  too  late.  We'll  have  to  si^t  out  at 
once." 

As  Gwyn  saiil  this,  he  dismounted,  and 
produced  a  letter  from  his  jioeket.  What  ho 
had  said  was  spoken,  not  only  for  Kane's 
benefit,  but  also  for  the  benefit  of  the  ser- 
vants, some  of  whom  ■were  within  hearing. 
IIo  wished  to  give  to  Bessie's  departure  a 
matter-of-fact  character,  so  as  to  prevent  any 
scandal.  In  this  lie  succeeded  perfectly,  for 
those  who  heard  it  nnderstood  by  his  words 
that  Lady  Ruthvcn's  departure  was  quite  nat- 
ural, and  that  her  husband  was  going  to  join 
her  at  once.  So  this  much  of  Gwyii's  pur- 
pose was  accomplished. 

To  Kano,  however,  these  words  only  af- 
forded fresh  perplexity.  When  lie  had  seen 
IJessie  last,  she  was  senseless;  and  now  ho 
learned  that  she  was  on  her  way  to  Paris. 
So  sudden  a  recovery,  combined  with  so  sud- 
den a  departure,  was  to  him  unaceountal)le. 
Why  could  she  not  have  waited  ?  lie  said 
nothing — he  was  too  bewildered — but  waited 
to  hear  Gwyn's  further  explanations. 

Gwyn  now  led  the  way  into  tlie  house. 

"  I'll  show  you  her  letter,"  ho  said.  "  It 
explains  all.  It  was  a  sudden  whim,  or  some 
sudden  fear  about  Inez,  yon  know ;  and  she 
was  awfully  fond  of  her,  you  know  ;  they  were 
like  sisters,  and  all  that — couldn't  wait  for 
us — had  to  go  the  first  moment  she  felt  strong 


".  uir 


1 

1 

% 

1  ■ 

f" 

h 

|l 

!' 

,   : 

'■ 

'  ■ 

.f 

i 

:;i 

} 

U    ■  'i 


5     i 


il! 


e    i: 


173 


AX  OPEX   QCESTIOX. 


cnoupli.  Toll  you  wliiit — wo  had  bi'ttcr  stiirt 
oil"  nt  once." 

■\Vith  remarks  like  Ihoso,  of  a  docMdcdly 
jerky  clinrncter,  (iwyn  aocomiiauicd  bis  brotli- 
er  into  the  liouso,  ,ud  then  showed  liim  Bes- 
sie's letter.  Kane  i-ead  it  nil  through  most 
oarefully.  To  him  it  seemed  evident  that 
Bessie's  wliole  motive  I'or  this  sudden  de- 
parture ^^as  her  uneasiness  about  Inez,  and 
her  longing  desire  lo  see  her.  Her  departure 
was  sudden,  yet  the  motive  that  liad  prompted 
it  seemed  to  Kane  only  an  additional  proof 
of  the  noble,  the  loyal,  tlie  affeeliouate,  and 
the  seK-saeridcing  frienusiiip  of  Bessie  for 
Inez.  And  this  only  heightened  the  warm 
admiration  whieh  he  aheady  felt  for  Bessie. 
He  could  not  help  feeling  touehed  by  this 
sudden  impulse,  in  obedienee  to  whieh  she 
had  hurried  olT  to  seek  and  to  save  her 
friend. 

But  with  the  admiration  which  ho  felt  for 
Bessie's  loyal  afl'ection  for  Inez,  there  was 
mingled  another  and  a  very  ditferent  feeling, 
excited  by  the  mention  of  one  name  in  her 
letter.  This  was  the  name  of  the  man  to 
whom  she  was  going — him  whom  she  claimed 
as  a  loved  relative — Kevin  M.'.grath. 

Xow  to  Kane  Kutiiven  this  man  had  al- 
ready appeared  in  a  twofold  and  altogether 
contradictory  character — first,  as  a  sort  of 
accusing  witness  ;  secondly,  as  a  remorseless 
villain.  Latterly  he  had  adopted  that  vietv 
of  the  man  which  he  had  received  from  Inez, 
whose  whole  story  he  had  heard,  and  whose 
sentiments  toward  Kevin  Magrath  ho  had 
embraced.  He  low  thought  of  him  as  the 
confederate  of  the  guilty  Wyvcrne,  as  the  in- 
stigator of  dark  crimes,  as  the  plotter  against 
Inez.  Yet  it  was  to  this  very  man  that  Bes- 
sie was  now  going.  She  would  tell  hiui,  in 
her  innocence  and  her  unsuspecting  trust, 
about  Inez.  She,  out  of  her  very  love,  might 
thus  prove  the  worst  enemy  that  Inez  could 
have,  and  would,  perhaps,  be  the  means  of 
bringing  the  helpless  fugitive  once  more  un- 
der the  power  of  her  roniorselens  persecutor. 

Such  thoughts  and  fears  ns  these  filled 
Kane's  whole  mind,  to  the  exclusion  of  every 
thing  else.  It  was  a  new  and  most  unex- 
pected change  in  the  curicnt  of  uTairs — a 
change  for  which  ho  was  altogether  unpre- 
pared, and  which  he  hardly  knew  how  to 
meet.  In  Bessie  'le  believed  implicitly  ns 
ho  believed  in  Inez.  One  of  these  regard- 
ed  Kevin    Magrath    ns   her   dearest    friend, 


while  the  other  regar:'-'  hira  as  her  worst, 
enemy.  Of  his  cruel  treatment  of  Inez  there 
could  be  do  doubt.  She  had  been  enticed 
into  his  power  by  the  most  shameful  deceit; 
she  had  been  allured  to  what  she  supposed 
to  be  her  father's  bedside,  and  had  been  ca- 
joled with  n  story  of  his  death,  and  misled 
by  forged  letters.  After  this  she  had  been 
kept  in  stiiet  imprisonment.  Of  nil  tins 
there  was  no  doubt,  and  all  this  had  been  the 
work  of  Kevin  Magrath.  Yet  this  was  the 
man  whom  Bessie  loved,  and  under  whose 
power  she  was  about  to  bring  Inez  once 
more. 

Kane  read  this  letter  in  silence,  and  was 
absorbed  in  such  thoughts  as  these.  Gwya 
had  expected  a  severe  course  of  questioning, 
aud  had  tried  to  prepare  himself  for  it,  but, 
to  his  great  relief,  no  questions  were  asked. 
Kline  had  too  much  to  think  of.  In  addition 
to  the  thoughts  just  narrated,  ho  had  others 
of  equal  importance,  and  prominent  among 
these  was  the  question  whether  he  ought  or 
ought  not  to  tell  Gwyn  the  whole  truth  about 
Kevin  Magrath.  Thus  far,  for  reasons  al- 
ready mentioned,  ho  had  not  divulged  that 
name.  Eut  now  circumstances  had  changed. 
There  was  danger  ahead,  nud  Gwyn  ought  to 
know  what  that  danger  was.  Perhaps  Bes- 
sie, as  well  as  Inez,  might  fall  into  the  ha/Js 
of  this  nn'ciupulous  villain,  and  the  measure 
that  he  had  already  meted  to  the  one  he  might 
deal  out  to  the  other  also. 

The  question  was  a  difTicult  one,  and  at 
length  Kane  decided  to  allow  things  to  re- 
main ns  they  "vere,  and  not  to  mention  to 
Gwyn  any  thing  about  what  he  conceived  to 
be  the  true  character  of  Kevin  Magrath,  but 
only  to  suggest,  in  a  general  way,  his  appre- 
hensions of  danger. 

"1  don't  like  this,"  said  he,  at  length. 
"I  don't  like  it  at  all." 

"  Oh,"  said  Gwyn,  with  an  attempt  at  in- 
difference,  "  she  was  so  awfully  fond  of  Inez, 
you  know,  she  had  to  go." 

"Oh,  I  know  all  that,"  said  Kane,  "and  I 
admire  her  foi  such  a  generous  impulse  ;  but, 
nt  the  same  time,  it  would  have  been  a  great 
deal  better  if  she  had  waited.  AVe  ought  to 
have  gone  together.  There  is  too  much  dan- 
ger-" 

"Danger?" 

"  Yes,  danger,  for  licr  and  for  Inez.  You 
see,  Inez  hns  jiowcrful  enemies,  and  th^'^y  are, 
no  doubt,  on  the  lookout  for  her.      If  Bes- 


THE  TWO   FRIEXDS. 


173 


IS  her  worst 
)f  Inez  there 
)C'en  enticed 
icful  deceit ; 
ho  supposed 
lad  been  ca- 
,  and  misled 
lie  liad  been 
Of  nil  thiH 
liad  been  tlio 
this  was  tlic 
under  whose 
g  Inez  once 

nee,  and  was 
heso.  Gwyu 
qucstioninfr, 
If  for  it,  but, 
I  were  asltcd. 
In  addition 
c  had  others 
linent  amonp; 
he  ought  or 
e  truth  about 
r  reasons  al- 
ilivulged  that 
had  changed, 
wyn  ought  to 
'erhaps  I5cs- 
ito  the  ha,  Js 
1  the  measure 
one  be  might 

;  one,  and  at 
things  to  re- 
I  mention  to 
conceived  to 
Magrath,  but 
ay,  his  appre- 

ic,  at  length. 

attempt  at  in- 
I'ond  of  Inez, 

Kane,  "  and  I 
impulse ;  but, 
been  a  great 
Wo  ought  to 
00  much  dan- 


or  Inez.  You 
and  tli'^^y  are, 
her.      If  BcB- 


pie's  movements  should  be  made  known  to 
them  —  a  very  possible  thing  —  they  might 
track  her,  and  get  her  into  their  power  as 
well  as  Inez.  It  seems  to  mc  that  the  c.e- 
mies  of  one  arc  the  enemies  of  the  other, 
and  that  the  dnr'ger  that  threatens  one  may 
threaten  botli." 

This  sugirestion  of  possible  danger  to 
Bessie  at  once  roused  a  new  feeling  in 
Gwyn'a  heart.  Already  he  longed  to  fly  to 
her,  out  of  his  deep,  yearning  love  ;  but  now 
tlie  possibility  of  danger  fo./  ed  a  new  mo- 
tive, anil  one,  too,  which  \''^ed  instant  r.nd 
immediate  departure. 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  he  asljcd, 
anxiously. 

"  I  do,"  said  Kano,  seriously. 

"Tiien  we  had  better  go  at  once.  If  this 
is  so,  I  cannot  stay  here  another  liour.  I  shall 
have  to  go,  and  you  will  iiavo  to  excuse  me, 
Kano." 

"  Excuse  you,  dear  boy  ?  I'll  do  nothing 
(  f  the  kind,  for  I  will  go  myself.  I  only 
came  hero  fur  the  sake  of  Inez,  and  I  am 
anxious,  above  all  things,  for  Bessie  to  find 
her.     Since  Bessie  has  gone,  I  will  go  too." 

That  very  evening  Kane  and  Gwyii  left 
Huthvcn  Towers.  They  might  just  as  welt 
have  remained  all  night,  for  they  gained 
nothing,  and  had  to  wait  at  Keswick ;  yet 
t.till  tl'.ey  both  felt  less  impatience  and  more 
s.'-^isfaction  in  doing  so,  since  it  seemed  to 
the;n  that  they  were  at  least  on  the  way  to 
their  destination.  Tliey  ■were  as  much  as 
twenty-four  hours  behind  Bessie,  but  they 
both  hoped  that  this  might  make  no  material 
difference. 


CHAPTER   XLII. 


TlIK   TWO    FIUKXDS. 


Bkssie's  accident  appeared  to  have  left 
no  evil  results  behind,  for  she  found  herself 
well  enough  on  the  following  morning  to  form 
the  resolution  of  going  to  Paris,  and  to  carry 
it  out  successfully.  On  the  morning  after 
she  reached  her  destination,  and  drove  at 
onco  to  the  Hotel  Gascoigne,  where  she  r" 
maincd  a  few  hours.  She  then  took  a  cab  to 
the  address  of  Inez,  wliicli  had  been  given 
her  by  Kane  Iluthvcn. 

Siie  found  the  place  without  much  dilli- 
culty,  and,  telling  the  C!il)maa  to  wait,  she  en- 
tered and  asked  for  Inez.     She  did  not  have 


to  wait  long.  A  hurried  step,  a  cry  of  joy, 
and  Inez  flung  herself  into  Bessie's  arms,  and 
the  two  friends  embraced  one  another  long 
and  fervently.  In  the  first  delight  of  that 
meeting  but  little  was  said  on  cither  side,  a-  J 
it  was  a  long  time  before  cither  appeared  to 
be  able  to  make  any  coherent  remark  of  any 
kind  whatever. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come,"  cried  Inez,  as 
aoou  as  slic  could  speak.  "  I  knew  you  would 
come  as  soon  as  you  heard.  I  knew  jon 
would  come,  you  darling — you  darling!  And 
did  you  see  Kane?  and  did  he  tell  you  all  ? 
Oh,  I  think  my  heart  will  almost  break  with 
utter  joy ! " 

"Sure  but  it's  the  cruel  girl  you  were  to 
me,  and  it's  tjio  sore  liciirt  I  had,"  cried  Bes- 
sie, reproachfully.  "  Wasn't  I  hoping  to  hear 
from  you  day  after  day,  until  at  last  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  tiiat  you'd  given  me  up  for 
good  and  all." 

"  Rut  I  couldn't — I  couldn't,  dear.  Didn't 
Kane  tell  you  about  me?  " 

"  Sure  and  he  did — the  wliole  story,  en- 
tirely— and,  of  course,  darling,  I  was  able  to 
account  for  what  had  seemed  your  very  mys- 
terous  silence.  Oli,  my  own  poor,  dear,  dar- 
ling Inez!  how  my  lieait  bled  for  yours  I — 
and  I  couldn't  wait  one  single  moment  longer; 
but,  as  soon  as  I  heard  about  you,  I  left 
every  thing — yes,  every  thing — and  hurried 
here!" 

At  this  proof  of  Bessie's  loyalty  and 
truth,  Inez  was  affected  to  tears.  She  could 
not  say  any  thing,  but  once  more  pressed  her 
friend  in  her  arms. 

"But  how  did  it  happen,  Bessie  dearest," 
asked  Inez,  after  a  time,  '•  that  my  letters 
never  reached  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sure  but  that's  very  easily  explained, 
Inez  darling,"  said  Bessie.  "  You  see,  I  had 
to  leave  poor  papa's  house — they  were  going 
to  sell  every  thing;  and,  as  you  had  left  mc, 
there  was  no  help  for  it  but  for  me  to  go,  too. 
So  I  went  away  to  my  own  liome  in  Cumber- 
land; and,  by  the  same  token,  my  otiier 
guardian  c:inie  to  take  me  away  at  that  same 
tinic,  having  heard,  you  know,  about  poor, 
dear  Guardy  Wyverne's  death.  So  yon  know, 
Inez  dearest,  you  addressed  your  letters  to 
me  at  London,  I  suppose,  while  I  -vas  away  in 
Cumberhuid  all  the  time;  so,  of  course,  I 
never  received  them." 

Tliis  explanation  fully  aceountt'il  for  what 
had  seemed  like  Bessie's  neglect,  and  vindi- 


i: 


LWT 


1 

' 

7' 

'V' 

':'"■ 

j  , 

1 

«; 

hi 

H 

f 

r    ! 

J. 

1    1 

If 

3^     '  1 

f 

I 

i': 

:  H 

K, 

11 

'■    rl 

'    *1 

'^i 

■    :| 

• 

'     '!■ 

1 

.;    1 

•^ 

^      ^ 

iri 

1:1  i 


m^ 


AN   OPEX  QUESTIOX. 


catcd  Lcr  faithful  fiifudship.  Bessie's  allu- 
siou  to  Mr.  Wyverne  as  her  "  papa "  struclf 
Inez  rather  unpleasantly,  and  she  now  thc'ight 
that  between  her  and  Bessie  there  was  ctill 
that  terrible  secret  which  had  already  been 
so  disastrous  to  her.  That  secret  put  her  in 
opposition  to  Bessie  —  it  gave  her  claims 
wliich  were  antagonistic  to  claims  of  Bessie's ; 
and,  if  Bessie  were  to  know  of  it,  Inez  saw 
that  she  would  lose  that  sweet  friendship 
v.'hich  was  now  her  dearest  consolation.  At 
this  very  first  meeting  with  Bessie,  therefore, 
she  saw  the  necessity  of  being  on  her  guard, 
and  maintaining  as  much  reserve  as  possible 
about  the  mystery  of  Bcrnal  Mordaunt.  The 
great  difficulty  here,  however,  was  her  igno- 
rance as  to  how  much  Kane  may  have  told 
Bessie. 

"While  she  wijs  trying  to  think  of  some 
way  by  wliich  she  might  find  this  out,  Bessie 
herself  volunteered  to  give  her  the  informa- 
tion. 

"  Oh,  my  own  darling !  "  exclaimed  Bessie, 
"  how  very,  very  rash  it  was  in  you,  you 
know,  so  it  was !  And  I'm  sure  I  don't  see 
why  you  couldn't  have  sent  some  a,;out  on  to 
this  fearful  place,  instead  of  coming  yourself. 
Your  poor,  dear  papa's  business  couldn't  have 
been  so  very,  very  pressing.  And  then  think 
of  the  sufl'ering  ycu  have  caused  me." 

"T  was  very  •ash,"  said  Inez,  "  very  rabh 
indeed." 

"■  Ai\i.i  you  must  never  do  so  again,"  said 
Bessie,  earnestly ;  "  now  promise." 

"  \o,  never,"  said  Inez. 

"  Promise  that  you  will  never  run  off  this 
way  without  telling  me." 

"  I  do  i)romiso,"  said  Inez.  "  I  do,  dear 
Bessie.  I  shall  not  leave  you  till  you  wish 
me  to." 

Bessie  laughed  joyously. 

"  Then  that  means  forever,  so  !t  docs  !  " 
she  cried ;  ''  and  sure  it's  myself  that'll  keep 
you  with  me  as  long  as  I  live,  so  I  will." 

"  Did  Kane  come  with  you  ?  "  asked  Inez, 
after  a  pause. 

"No,"  said  Bcs.^^ie;  "sure  I  just  ran 
avay,  leaving  thera  by  themselves.  And  I 
suppose  they'll  bo  coming  in  in  hot  haste 
after  me.  They'll  both  bo  here  by  to-mor- 
row." 

"Both?"  repeated  Inez.  "Both  who? 
Is  there  any  other  but  Kane  ?  Do  you  mean 
your  guardian ! " 

"Well,  yes;  that's  what  he  just  is,"  said 


Bessie,  with  a  merry  smile.     "  He's  my  guar- 
dian." 

"  What's  his  name  ?  " 

"  His  name  is  Sir  Gwyn  Ruthvcn.  He  is 
Kane's  brother,  you  know." 

At  this  astounding  intelligence  Inez  started 
back,  and,  for  a  few  moments,  stared  at  Bes- 
sie in  the  deepest  astonishment.  Kane  had 
told  her  his  true  name,  but  she  was  not  aware 
that  any  brother  of  his  was  alive ;  and,  though 
she  was  acquainted  with  Sir  Gwyn  Ruthven, 
yet  she  did  not  imagine  for  a  moment  that  ho 
was  Kane's  brother. 

"  Sure  and  I've  pot  another  surprise  for 
you,"  said  Bessie,  regarding  Inez  with  a  sly 
and  mischievous  smile. 

"  Another  surprise  ?  "  repeated  Inez.  "  This 
is  surprise  enough  for  one  day.  Oh,  how 
glad  I  am — how  glad  I  am  !  Kane  is  reunited 
with  his  friends,  then  ?  " 

"I  should  think  he  is,"  said  Be.«sie.  "  Sir 
Gwyn  is  Sir  Gwyn  no  longer.  It  is  Sir  Kane 
Ruthven  now,  and  Ruthven  Towers  goes  to 
him  also.  But  that  isn't  the  surprise  I  mean 
for  you,  at  all  at  all.  It's  about  myself,  so  it 
is,  Inez  darling." 

"  Yourself,  Bessie  ?  what  is  it  ?  "  asked 
Inez,  full  of  interest. 

"  Well,  you  know,  dear,  I  said  that  Sir 
Gwyn  Ruthven,  or  Mr.  Gwyn  Ruthven,  is  my 
guardian." 

"  Yes — how  strange,  too !  I  never  knew 
that  before." 

"  Xo — ]io  more  you  did.  lie  hasn't  filled 
that  office  long.  It's  a  very  pecuUar  sort  of 
guardianship,  too." 

"But  isn't  he  rather  young  and  inexperi- 
enced for  so  important  and  responsible  a  posi- 
tion ? "  asked  Inez,  in  a  solemn  tone. 

Bessie  laughed  gayly. 

"Oh,  sure,"  said  she,  "this  is  a  kind  of 
guardianship,  Inez  darling,  that  makes  youth 
all  the  more  appropriate.  It's  guardian  of 
mo  for  life  that  he  is." 

And  Bessie  looked  with  such  a  peculiar 
smile  at  Inez,  that  the  latter  began  to  catch 
her  meaning  at  last. 

"  AVhy,  Bessie,"  she  exclaimed,  In  amaze- 
ment, "  you  look  as  though  you  moan 
that—" 

"  That  he's  my  husband,"  said  Bessie,  tri- 
umphnntly,  "  and  I'm  Mrs.  Ruthven,  so  I  am 
— a  bride  of  a  few  weeks'  standing,  that 
hasn't  ceased  to  bo  a  friend  cither,  so  I 
haven't ;  for  didn't  I  run  away  froui  my  own 


c  s  my  giuir- 


liven.    He  is 

c  Inez  started 
;ared  at  Bes- 
c.  Kane  Lad 
ras  not  aware 
;  and,  though 
vyn  Ruthvcn, 
jmcnt  that  he 

p  surprise  for 
cz  with  a  sly 

idlncz.  "This 
ay.  Oh,  bow 
lue  is  reunited 

Bessie.  "Sir 
It  is  Sir  Kane 
owcrs  goes  to 
irprisc  I  mean 
it  myself,  so  it 

i3  it?"  asked 

said  that  Sir 
luthvcn,  is  my 

I  never  knew 

[e  hasn't  filled 
eculiar  sort  of 

;  and  iucxperi- 
lonsiblc  aposi- 
1  tone. 

i  is  a  kind  of 
t  makes  youth 
's  guardian  of 

uch  a  peculiar 
jcgan  to  catch 

meJ,  in  amaze- 
jh    you    moan 

said  Bessie,  tri- 
Jtiivcn,  BO  I  am 
standing,  that 
d  cither,  so  I 
y  froui  my  own 


THE   TWO  FRIENDS. 


176 


husband  to  conje  to  the  help  of  my  darling 
Inez  ?  " 

With  these  words  Bessie  flung  her  arms 
around  Inez,  and  kissed  her  fondly ;  while 
Inez,  who  was  perfectly  thunderstruck  at  the 
news  of  Bessie's  marriage,  and  did  not  know 
what  to  say,  was  so  aU'ected  by  this  additional 
proof  of  Bessie's  love  for  her  that  she  could 
only  murmur  a  few  incoherent  words  of  all'cc- 
tion  and  gratitude. 

"You  ooe,  Inez  dearest,"  continued  Bes- 
sie. "  Gywn  and  I  had  an  understanding  in 
London,  though  nobody  knew  it,  and,  when  1 
went  home,  he  came  after  me,  and  he  was  so 
urgent,  and  I  was  so  lonely,  and  he  loved  me 
so,  that— that,  in  fact,  I  liadn't  one  single 
reason  for  refusing  him,  and  a  great  many  for 
accepting  him,  and  there  you  have  it.  But 
oh,  it's  the  loving  heart  and  the  noble  nature 
he  has,  so  it  is,  and  you  know  you  always 
liked  him  yourself — now  didn't  you,  Inc.  dar- 
hng?" 

"  It's  enough  for  luc,"  said  Inez,  "  ihat  he 
is  Kane's  brother.  I  consider  Kane  one  of 
the  most  noble-hearted  men  I  ever  saw." 

"  True  for  you,"  said  Hessie,  "  and,  as  for 
(Iwyn,  why,  sure  it's  enough  to  say  that  he's 
Kane's  own  brother.  And  oh,  but  it  was  the 
beautiful  siglit  to  see  the  meeting  between 
the  two  of  them.  They  went  on  to  make 
idols  of  one  another,  so  they  did.  I  didn't 
like  to  interfere  with  tlieir  enjoyment,  and  I 
was  cra/y  to  see  yon,  and  so  I  thought  I'd 
satisfy  niysL'lf,  and  you,  and  tiwyn, and  Kane, 
and  everybody,  by  slipi)ing  away,  and  leaving 
tlicm  to  come  after  me.  And  they'll  be  com- 
ing along  at  once,  and'U  be  here  to-morrow, 
no  doubt." 

It  was  with  very  diversified  feelings  tliat 
Inez  listened  to  Bessie  as  she  communicated 
this  information.  She  felt  sincere  and  un- 
feigned joy  that  lier  true  friend  had  won  a 
man  whom  she  loved,  and  a  man,  too,  who 
was  so  worthy  of  her ;  but  yet  it  jarred 
somewhat  upon  her  to  hear  Bessie  speak  of 
Kane  in  this  way,  and  to  think  that  Kane  was 
her  l>rothcr-in-law.  It  had  come  to  this,  now 
that  Kane  was  brother-in-law  to  each  of  tliem. 
Now,  there  was  nothing  in  this  fact  itself  for 
Inez  to  object  to,  but  the  thing  that  excited  a 
sense  of  unpleasantness,  or  uneasiness,  was 
the  additionul  closeness  with  which  Bessie's 
fortunes  were  interweaving  themselves  with 
her  own.  Already  there  was  the  mystery  of 
Bessie's  name  and  claim,  conliicting  so  utterly 


with  her  own.  This  of  itself  brought  about 
between  them  a  conflict  of  interests,  about 
which  Inez  did  not  like  to  think  ;  but  now  this 
new  relationship  to  Kane  promised  to  bring 
forward  new  antagonisms,  and  seemed  to  be- 
token evil  in  the  future.  There  were  a  thou- 
sand things  which  she  wished  to  ask  Bessie, 
but  dared  not  touch  upon.  Bessie  still  re- 
garded her  as  InezWyverne;  Bessie  regardcu 
herself  as  the  daughter  of  Bcrual  Mordaunt ; 
she  must  also  regard  Kane  lluthven  as  the 
man  who  married  Clara  Mordaunt,  whom  she 
believed  to  be  her  own  elder  sister.  All 
these  things  constituted  elements  of  disturb- 
ance, and  made  Inez  watchful  and  cautious  in 
her  words.  Upon  these  subjects  it  would  not 
do  to  venture.  To  do  so  would  be  to  en- 
danger this  sweet  friendship  which  had  come 
like  a  gleam  of  sunshine  into  the  darkness 
of  her  life.  She  did  not  even  venture  to  ask 
after  Bernal  Mordaunt,  for  fear  lest  this 
might  bring  forward  the  dreaded  subject. 
But  her  desire  to  enjoy  Bessie's  lov^.  was 
stronger  than  her  curiosity  about  her  own 
circumstances,  or  even  than  her  filial  anxiety 
about  Bernal  Mordaunt ;  and,  therefore,  she 
willingly  put  away  for  the  present  every 
thought  about  these  forbidden  nuitters. 

As  for  Bessie,  she  was  perfectly  unembar- 
rassed, and  showed  all  that  warm-hearted  and 
demonstrative  affection,  all  that  frank  cor- 
diality and  playful  drollery  which  constituted 
so  great  a  charm  in  her  manner.  She  made 
no  allusion  whatever  to  the  return  of  Bernal 
Mordaunt,  to  his  fondness  for  Gwyn,  and  to 
his  death.  Whether  this  arose  fro'n  any  sus- 
picion of  the  belief  that  Inez  had  in  her  re- 
liition  to  him,  and  from  a  des\re  to  avoid 
what,  would  necessarily  be  a  paniful  subject; 
or,  on  the  other  hand,  whether  she  avoided 
this  subject  simply  from  an  unn<llinf;ues3  to 
touch  upon  a  matter  which  w.s  so  sad  to 
herself,  did  not  appear. 

After  a  prolonged  conversat'on,  Bessie  at 
length  proposed  that  Inez  should  go  v.ith  her 
at  once.  Inez  was  not  at  all  unwilling;  and, 
as  her  luggage  was  slender,  indeed,  no  great 
time  was  taken  up  in  making  preparations. 
But  Inez  could  not  leave  without  ac<iuainting 
the  kind  landlady  and  her  family  with  her 
good  fortune,  and  bidding  them  good-by.  The 
good  people  rejoiced  with  unfeigned  joy,  and 
exhibited  a  delight  at  the  changed  fortunes 
of  Inez  which  was  c.itremcly  toncfjing ; 
while,  by  the  admiring  glnnces  which  they 


176 


AX  OPEN  QUESTION. 


.v^ 


turned  upon  Bessie,  they  evulcntl}'  thought 
that  the  lovely  English  girl  was  being  re- 
stored to  friiMids  who  were  worthy  of  her. 
After  an  affectionate  farewell,  and  amid  fer- 
vent good  wishes  for  her  future  happiness, 
Inez  took  hor  departure,  and  drove  oil'  with 
Bessie  to  the  Hotel  Gascoigne. 

acre  Inez  was  delighted  to  find  that  the 
'.,  I'ing  forethought  of  Bessie  had  caused  all 
uecessary  preparations  to  be  made  for  lier 
comfort.  There  was  a  suite  of  rooms  for  the 
two  friends,  and  Inez  had  a  room  to  herself, 
with  a  dressing-room  adjoining.  In  addition 
to  this,  Bessie  had  contrived  to  bring  on  lug- 
gage enough  to  supply  all  the  wants  of  Inez 
in  the  way  of  apparel.  In  fact,  there  was 
nothing  wanting  of  all  that  careful  fore- 
thought and  considerate  affection  could  sug- 
gest. Here  Inez,  for  the  first  time  in  many 
weeks,  felt  that  perfect  peace  and  comfort 
which  arises  from  the  sense  of  safety,  and 
protection,  and  the  neighborhood  of  loving 
friends.  All  this  was  given  to  her  by  these 
surroundings,  and  by  Bessie's  presence. 

Yet  out  of  this  sweet  security  and  perfect 
peace  Inez  had  a  sudden  and  most  unpleasant 
start,  which  occurred  just  at  the  beginning 
of  this  new  enjoyment,  and  for  a  time  seemed 
to  her  to  threaten  the  ruin  of  every  hope.  It 
was  caused  by  a  casual  rcuiaik  of  Bessie's, 
made  in  all  innocence,  and  in  perfect  uneon- 
sciousiess  of  the  effect  which  it  was  to  pro- 
duce. 

"And  now,  Inez  darling,"  said  she,  after 
the  close  of  a  prolonged  conversation  about 
Kane  and  Gwyn — "and  now  I  have  one  of 
my  very  dearest  friends  here,  and,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  him,  I  couldn't  have  come  on 
so  quick,  darliu;.; — it's  me  dear  mamma's 
papa — and  you  must  sec  him  this  day.  You'll 
love  him  as  I  do,  I  know." 

Bessie  suddenly  stopped,  astonished  at 
the  change  which  came  over  Inez.  For,  no 
sooner  had  Inez  heard  these  words,  and  this 
allusion  to  Bessie's  "nuimma's  papa,"  tiian 
she  turned  as  pale  as  death,  and  started  to 
her  feet  with  an  expression  of  deadly 
fear. 

"  Wliat's  all  this  ?  "  cried  Bessie ;  "  what's 
the  matter,  Inez  ?  Inez  darling !  " 

"  Is  that  man — iicre  ?  "  gasped  Inez. 

"  That  man  !     What  man  ?  "  cried  Bessie. 

"  Kevin  Xiagrath,"  said  Inez,  in  a  scarcn 
audible  voice. 

"Kevin   Magrath,"    said    Bessie:    "wliv, 


that's  my  mamma's  papa.     Why,  wasn't   I 
saying  that  he  is  here,  but — " 

"  I'll  go  away,"  said  Inez,  with  a  terrified 
look.     "  Let  me  go,  Bessie  dearest.     Let  me 


go 


I" 


"What!  Is  it  mad  ye  arc  ?"  cried  Bes- 
sie, clinging  to  Inez.  "  What  in  the  wide 
world  has  come  over  ye  then  ?  Sure,  I  don't 
undei stand  this,  at  all,  at  all!  Is  it  my 
grandpa  that  you're  afraid  of?  Sure,  and  it 
looks  like  it,  so  it  does  ! " 

"  I'll  go.  I  will  not  stay.  Bessie,  if  you 
love  me,  don't  stop  me.  Bessie,  dearest  Bes- 
sie, let  mo  go.  O  Bessie !  that  man,  that 
man — Kevin  Magrath — he  is  the  one  that  has 
caused  all  my  sufferings.  Bessie,  darling, 
friend,  let  me  go.  If  he  gets  me  in  his  power 
again,  I  shall  die." 

And  Inez  tore  herself  away,  and  hurried 
to  her  room,  where  she  began  to  put  on  her 
hat.     Bessie  hastened  after  her. 

"Inez!"  she  cried,  vehemently.  "Inez, 
darling  InCo,  will  ye  trust  me  then  ?  Am  I 
nothing  to  you'?  Is  it  nothing  for  me  to  have 
done  what  I  did,  and  quit  my  own  husband 
to  sec  you?  AVill  you  run  away  from  me  for 
a  wild,  fantastic  freak?  Is  it  mad  ye  are, 
then  ?  Oh,  my  poor,  darling  Inez !  how  very, 
very  cruel  this  is  of  you  !  " 

"O  Bessie!"  said  Inez,  mournfully,  "you 
do  not  know  what  I  have  suffered,  and  that 
man  is  the  cause,  Bessie.  Let  me  go  now, 
dear,  or — " 

"  No,"  said  Bessie,  firmly,  coming  up  and 
taking  Inez  in  her  arms.  "No,  dear,  I  will 
not  let  you  go — never — or,  if  you  do  go,  I 
will  go  with  you.  I  will  not  leave  you.  I 
have  found  you,  and  I  will  follow  you.  But, 
listen  to  reason  for  a  moment,  will  you? 
Inez  darling,  there's  some  mystery  about  you 
that  I  don't  understand  at  all,  at  all — and 
Kane  didn't  explain  much  after  all — perhaps 
because  he  didn't  understand  any  more'n  I 
do — and  for  my  jiart  I  don't  want  to  think  of 
it  at  all,  for  it  makes  my  poor  little  head  acho 
— and  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it,  for  it'.s 
painful,  so  it  is,  both,  to  mo  and  to  you. 
Don't  I  know  it?  Am  I  an  owl  ?  Not  me, 
Inez  darling.  Let's  lury  it  all  out  of  sight. 
Let's  forgot  all  abo'.c  it,  dear,  and  be  our  own 
selves  again,  bu.u  aa  we  used  to  bo  before 
your  pon-,  dear  papa  died.  But,  aa  to  my 
mamnui's  papa,  if  it's  him  you're  afraid  of,  I 
tell  you  it's  all  a  mistake  you're  under.  Ife 
must  111',  so  it  must.     He  harm  you  !     He  ira'- 


ar 
T( 
ch 
nt 


hii 

hit 

cv 
an 


l'  -i, 


A   REVKLATIOX. 


177 


,-,  wasn't  I 

a  torrifieil 
St.    Let  me 

"  cried  Bps- 
n  the  wide 
lure,  I  don't 
Is  it  my 
Sure,  ami  it 

c?sie,  if  you 
dearest  Ik'S- 
t  man,  tliat 
one  that  lias 
ssie,  darlin?;. 
iu  his  power 

and  hurried 
;o  put  on  her 

rttly.  "  Inez, 
hen?  Am  I 
jr  me  to  have 
own  husband 
•  from  me  for 
mad  ye  are, 
oz !  how  very, 

rnfuUy,  "  you 
i;red,  and  that 
t  me  go  now, 

omiug  up  an<l 
o,  dear,  I  will 
you  do  go,  1 
leave  you.     I 
ow  you.     I?ut, 
nt,  will   you? 
;cry  about  you 
II,  at  all — an<l 
r  all — perhaps 
any  moro'n  I 
int  to  think  of 
ittle  head  ache 
bout  It,  for  it'ii 
>  and    to   you. 
owl  ?     Not  me, 
11  out  of  sight, 
ind  be  our  own 
J  to  be  before 
But,  as  to  my 
u're  afraid  of,  I 
)u're  under.    It 
u  vout    He  ira- 


pri.son  you!  'Why,  it's  mad  you  are  to  think 
of  such  a  thing.  There  never  breathed  a  no- 
bler, truer,  more  tender-hearted  mau  than 
that  same  Kevin  Miigrath.  Don't  I  know 
him?  Mo  own  grandpa,  too,  the  darling! 
cjuro  I  do.  It's  all  a  mistake,  whatever  it  is 
— a  mistake,  Inez  darling,  no  matter  what  it 
is — and  there  you  have  it." 

Bessie's  velienienco  impressed  Inez  in 
spite  of  herself,  and  she  found  her  terrors 
fading  away  iu  the  presence  of  such  asser- 
tions as  these.  She  could  not  help  thinking 
that  the  man  whom  Bessie  so  loved,  and  in 
whom  she  so  thoroughly  believed,  could  not 
be  altogether  the  villain  that  she  had  sup- 
posed him  to  be. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  him,  Inez  darling?  " 
continued  Bessie.  "  Tell  mo,  have  you  ever 
seen  him  then,  or  have  you  ever  spoken  with 
him  ?  " 

"Xevcr,"  said  Inez,  hesitatingly. 

It  was  a  fact.  She  had  never  actually 
seen  him. 

"  Sure,  thou,  it's  a  mad  fancy  of  yours,  so 
it  is.  Won't  you  believe  me  when  I  tell  you 
that  he's  one  of  the  best  and  noblest  of  men, 
and,  if  you  were  only  to  see  him  and  know 
him,  you'd  feel  toward  him  as  I  do,  so  you 
would  ?  Sure,  how  do  I  know,  Inez  darling, 
what  wild  fancy  you've  got  into  your  head? 
but  it  is  a  wild,  mad  fiincy;  of  that  I'm  sure, 
so  I  am.  So  come,  sit  down  again.  Sure, 
you  haven't  any  cause  to  fear  while  you're 
with  mo,  and  whore  in  the  wide  world  can  you 
go  to?" 

This  was  a  question  which  Inez  could  not 
answer.  AVhero,  indeed,  could  she  go  now  ? 
To  find  Bessie  had  for  a  long  time  been  the 
chief  desire  of  her  heart.  How  could  she 
now  fly  from  her  ? 

Besides,  here  was  Bessie  urging  her  most 
vehemently  to  dismiss  those  suspicions  which 
she  had  been  entertaining  about  Kevin  Ma- 
grath.  Bessie  trusted  in  him.  Bessie  loved 
him.  Might  not  Bessie's  trust  and  love  be 
justifiable?  After  all,  she  had  never  seen 
him.  She  had  judged  from  circumstantial 
evidence.  Might  not  all  this  be  explained 
awoy?  AVas  she  so  sure  that  she  was  righ*, 
that  she  could  put  her  opinion  ngjinst  that 
of  Bessie  ? 

But  more  than  thi.s — here  was  Bessie,  and 

what  harm  could  now  befall  her  ?     t'ould  she 

dread  imprisonment  now — with  Bessie  ?   Tiiat 

would  bo  absurd,     Besides,  in  the  space  of 

12 


one  more  day,  Kane  would  bo  here,  and  with 
him  his  brother  Gwyn,  who  was  also  Bessie's 
husband.  There  would  then  be  three  upon 
whom  she  could  rely.  Even  if  Kevin  JIugrath 
should  be  .all  that  she  had  believed  him  to  be, 
what  could  he  do  when  she  had  the  support 
of  Bessie  and  her  husband  and  Kane? 

Finally,  in  spite  of  all  that  Inez  had  suf- 
fered, she  found  herself  in  a  strange  state  of 
doubt  as  to  the  truth  of  her  own  belief  about 
Kevin  Magrath.  Here  was  Bessie  who  as- 
sured her  that  this  belief  was  false.  Kano 
also,  who  had  just  been  with  Bessie,  and  had 
talked  with  her  about  these  matters,  might 
possibly  have  learned  enough  about  him  to 
change  the  opinion  that  he  had  formed  ;  and, 
indeed,  it  seemed  as  though  it  must  be  so, 
since  Bessie  had  left  her  husband,  and  Kano 
also,  with  the  express  purpose  of  going  on  to 
join  Kevin  Magrath,  and  find  herself.  Kevin 
Magrath,  then,  seemed  to  Inez  to  lose  his  ter- 
rors, since  Kane  had  allowed  Bessie  to  go 
forward  on  this  errand. 

She  therefore  allowed  herself  to  be  per- 
suaded and  soothed  and  quieted  by  Bessie's 
words,  and,  at  length,  not  only  gave  up  all 
thoughts  of  flight,  but  allowed  herself  to  con- 
sent  to  an  interview  with  this  once-dreaded 
Kevin  Magrath  that  very  evening. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 


A    IlKVKLATIOX. 


The  ap[)rehension  with  which  Inez  looked 
forward  to  a  meeting  with  Kevin  Magrath 
did  not  last  over  the  first  few  momenta  of 
that  interview.  Ho  was  dressed  in  black, 
rather  after  the  fashion  in  vogue  among  Eng- 
lish priests,  than  among  those  on  the  Con- 
tinent. As  he  looked  at  Inez,  there  was  on 
his  face  something  so  mild  and  paternal  that 
her  fears  departed,  and  she  began  to  think 
that  she  had  been  mistaken  iu  him  all  along. 
Ho  addressed  to  her  a  few  affectionate  words, 
mingled  with  playful  allusions  to  Bessie's 
rumiing  away  from  her  husband  for  her  sake, 
and  then  proceeded  to  express  the  deepest 
sympathy  for  lier,  and  the  ntrongest  con- 
demnation of  Gounod.  lie  declared  that  it 
was  all  a  most  lamentable  mistake,  arising 
from  the  miserable  stupidity  of  "that  old 
fool,  (Jounod.'-  Ho  had  directed  him  merely 
to  take  the  greatest  possible  care  of  her, 


Il  "Mill 


BBBBBS 


178 


AN  OPEN    QUESTION. 


I 


I; 


:   ^ 


fit! 

'I 
-  \ 

i 


vhich  direction  he  had  understood,  or  mis- 
understood, so  as  to  concoivo  hid  duties  to 
be  those  of  a  jailer.  lie  alluded,  in  touching 
language,  to  his  own  deep  grief  when  he 
learned  that  she  had  gone,  and  to  hia  fear 
even  to  search  after  lier,  lest  she  might  sup- 
pose that  she  was  pursued. 

After  these  preliminaries,  he  went  on  to 
say  that  the  time  had  now  come,  which  he 
had  50  long  wished  to  see,  when  he  could 
explain  every  thing  to  her,  and  to  Bessie 
also. 

"  I  mean  both  of  you,"  said  he,  "  for 
you're  both  involved  in  this,  and  oh,  but  it's 
the  shupremo  momint  of  my  life,  so  it  is. 
Gyerruls — Inez  Mordaunt,  Bessie  Mordaunt — 
listen  to  me.  Ye  both  love  one  another  liiie 
sisters,  so  yo  do.  Inez  darlin',  haven' >,  ^c 
ever  suspected  what's  mint  by  Bessie's 
name  ?  Bessie  jool,  don't  ye  suspect  some- 
thin'  when  ye  uear  me  callin'  her  Inez  Mor- 
daunt ? " 

And  with  these  words  Kevin  Magrath 
looked  first  at  one  and  then  at  the  other 
with  a  beaming  smile  of  joyous  expectation. 

At  such  a  singular  address  as  this  both 
Inez  and  Bessie  looked  puzzled.  Inez  looked 
at  the  speaker  with  earnest,  solemn  scrutiny; 
■while  Bessie  looked  first  af  Inez  and  then  at 
him,  and  then  back  again  at  Inez. 

"  Ye  love  one  another  like  sisters,"  con- 
tinued Kevin  Magrath  —  "ye  love  one  an- 
other like  sisters,  and  why  ?  Why  i:5  it  ? 
Why?  Have  ye  nivcr  suspected?  Listen, 
then,  I'll  tell  ye's  both  why  it  is. — It's  be- 
cause ye  are  sisters  ! " 

"  Sisters  I "  exclaimed  Inez,  in  utter  bewil. 
derment.  "  Sisters !  AVhat  do  you  mean  ?  " 
And  she  turned  and  looked  inquiringly  at 
Bessie,  who  took  her  hand  in  one  of  hers, 
and,  twining  her  other  lovingly  around  her 
shoulder,  looked  eagerly  at  Kevin  Magrath, 
and  said : 

"Sure  an'  it  must  be  one  of  your  jokes, 
grandpa  darling,  so  it  must.  Inez  Mordaunt, 
is  it,  and  sisters,  is  it  ?  How  very,  very  fun- 
ny, and  sure  it's  me  that  don't  understand  it 
at  all  at  all — now  do  you,  Inez  darling  ?  " 

"  Be  the  powers  !  but  it  would  be  strange 
if  yc  did  until  I've  explained  myself  some- 
what. You,  Bessie  jool,  have  always  known 
that  ycr  father  was  Bernal  Mordaunt ;  and 
you,  Inez,  only  knowed  it  after  the  rivilation 
of  the  late  Ilennigcr  Wyvcrue — peace  bo  to 
his  sowl!" 


At  this  Bessie  clasped  Inez  closer  in  her 
arms,  and  murmured  : 

"0  Inez!  darling,  darling  Inez,  is  this 
really  so  ?  ' 

"I'll  explain  it  all,"  continued  Kevin  Ma- 
grath, while  Inez  said  not  a  word,  but  stood 
motionless  from  astonishment,  with  all  her 
gaze  fastened  upon  his  face,  as  though  to 
read  there  the  truth  or  the  falsity  of  these 
astounding  statements. 

"Bernal  Mordaunt,  thin,  the  father  of  ' 
both  of  )'e's,  had  two  daughters — one  named 
Clara,  now  in  glory,  the  other  named  Inez, 
now  in  this  room.  Now,  whin  this  Inez 
was  a  little  over  two  years  old,  Mrs.  Mor- 
daunt had  a  third  u.^ughter,  who  ia  this  very 
Bessie,  now  likewise  in  this  room." 

"  And  is  Inez  really  my  sister,  then  ? " 
cried  Bessie,  with  irrepressible  enthusiasm, 
"  and  older  than  me,  and  me  always  loved 
her  BO  ! — 0  Inez !  dear,  sweet  sister  !  0  Inez ! 
sure  but  it's  heart-broke  with  joy  I  fairly  am, 
and  there  you  have  it ! " 

With  these  words  Bessie  pressed  Inez 
again  and  again  in  her  arms ;  and  Inez,  who 
was  still  puzzled  by  various  thoughts,  which 
still  stood  in  the  way  of  her  full  reception  of 
this  announcement,  was  nevertheless  so  O'cr- 
whelmed  by  Bessie's  love  that  she  yielded  to 
it  utterly,  and,  returning  her  embraces  and 
kisses,  burst  into  tec.ra,  and  wept  in  her 
arms. 

"  Yo're  not  the  same  age,  thin,"  said 
Kevin  Magrath,  "  for  you,  Inez,  are  one  year 
older  than  ye've  been  believing;  and  you, 
Bes'io,  are  one  year  younger.  Sure  au' 
there's  been  onindiug  schayming  about  ye's, 
and  ye've  been  the  jupes  of  it.  But  I'm  not 
going  now  to  purshue  that  same  into  all  its 
multiehudinous  rameefeecations.  I'm  only 
intinding  to  mintion  a  few  plain  facts.  Well, 
thin,  your  poor  mother,  Bessie,  died  in  giving 
birth  to  you.  With  that  death  died  out  all 
the  happiness  of  Bernal  Mordaunt.  Sorry 
am  I  to  say,  also,  that  you,  the  innocent 
child,  were  regarded  by  the  widowed  husband 
with  coldness,  if  not  aversion,  for  that  you 
were  the  cause,  innocent  though  you  were, 
of  the  death  of  his  wife,  whom  ho  adored. 
His  other  children  he  had  always  loved,  but 
you  ho  nivcr  mintioned,  nor  would  he  hear 
about  you  after  the  death  of  bis  wife.  So 
Bessie,  poor  child,  you  were  at  the  very  out- 
set of  life  worse  thin  orphined." 

"  I'm  sure  it — it  wasn't  my  fault ;  and 


;loscr  in  her 

ncz,   id  tb'ia 

(1  Kevin  Ma- 
d,  but  stood 
with  all  lici" 
13  tliough  to 
Isity  of  these 

le  father   of  ' 
—one  named 
named  Inez, 
liu    thid    Inez 
Id,  MiH.  II or^ 

10  is  this  very 
m." 

stcr,  then?" 
B  entliusiasm, 
always  loved 
ster  !  0  Inez ! 
)y  I  fairly  am, 

pressed  Inez 
:ind  Irez,  who 
oughts,  which 

11  reception  of 
leless  so  over- 
she  yielded  to 
embraces  and 

wept  in   her 

e,  thin,"   said 
;,  are  one  year 
ing;  and   you, 
;er.      Sure  an' 
ng  about  ye's, 
But  I'm  not 
QIC  into  all  its 
ns.     I'm  only 
in  facts.    Well, 
,  died  in  giving 
Lh  died  out  all 
:daunt.      Sorry 
I,  tho  innocent 
dowed  husband 
n,  for  that  you 
)ugh  you  were, 
om  ho  adored, 
ways  loved,  but 
would  he  bear 
f  his  wife.    So 
it  the  very  out- 
l." 
my  fault;  and 


A  REVELATION. 


179 


I'm  sure  I — I  think  it  was  a  great  shame  so 
it  was,"  said  Bessie,  sobbing  as  she  spoke ; 
and,  drawing  herself  away  from  Inez,  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Well,  thin,  Bernal  Mordaunt,  weary  of 
the  wurnild  as  he  was,  determined  to  quit  it, 
and  spind  tlie  remainder  of  his  life  in  the  ser- 
vices of  religion.  So  he  wint  away  and  in- 
tered  the  Church,  and  became  a  priest.  Be- 
fore taking  this  step  ho  committed  his  chil- 
dren to  the  gyarjiunship  of  Ilcnnigar  Wy- 
veiTio,  whose  wife  was  the  dear  friend  and 
rilative  of  the  deceased  Mrs.  Mordaunt.  Xow, 
here  was  the  injustice  which  ho  did,  poor 
man.  His  children,  in  his  eyes,  were  only 
Clara  and  Inez ;  the  young  infant  he  would 
not  acknowledge ;  he  virtually  disouned  his 
own  child  by  neglicting  it,  by  ignoring  it. 
Here  it  was  when  I  interposed.  I  remon- 
strated with  him,  but  he  listened  with  cold 
impatience.  'Do  as  you  please  with  her, 
Kevin,'  says  ho  to  me,  '  but  don't  talk  about 
her  to  me ;  but  for  her  my  wife  would  never 
have  died.'  Those  were  his  own  words,  so 
they  were.  Cruel  they  were,  and  bitter,  and 
most  unjust,  but  he  couldn't  be  moved  from 
them,  and  he  wint  away  ic  the  far  East,  to 
spind  tho  remainder  of  his  life  as  a  mission- 
ary priest. 

"  I  was  saying  that  I  interposed  here. 
Alreddy  this  ncglicted  child  had  been  kept 
by  a  nurse,  and  was  now  nearly  a  year  old. 
I  came  with  me  sister,  and  I  took  ths  poor 
disouned  child,  and  I  had  her  well  brought 
up,  and  I  have  sustained  meself  for  years 
with  the  hope  that  Bernal  Mordaunt  might 
yet  return  to  receive  his  injured  daughter 
from  my  hands." 

"  0  darling  grandpa — then  you  are  not 
my  real  grandpa,  after  all?  "  said  Bessie,  draw- 
ing nearer  to  Kevin  Magrath,  and  taking  his 
Lands  fondly  in  hers;  "but,  at  any  rate,  I 
owe  you,  and  you  only,  a  daughter's  love  and 
duty,  so  I  do." 

"  Sure  to  glory,  thin,  Bessie,  don't  I  know 
it,  and  isn't  it  me  that's  always  loved  ye  as  a 
father,  so  it  was  ?  " 

"And  sure,  then,"  said  Bessie,  holding 
Kevin  Magrath's  hand  ia  one  of  hers,  and 
reaching  out  the  other  to  take  that  of  Inez ; 
"  you,  Inez  darling,  won't  disown  your  sister, 
even  if  my  cruel  father  did  ao  turn  away,  will 
you,  darling?" 

Inez  pressed  her  hand  warmly.  Bessie's 
sad  fate  touched  bcr  heart  keenly,  and  this 


new-found  sister  came  to  her  surrounded  with 
a  new  and  pathetic  interest — that  sister,  cast 
out  so  long  since,  and  now  so  strangely  Re- 
stored. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Kevin  Magrath,  "  sure 
it's  best  to  let  by-gones  be  by-goncs.  As  I 
was  saying,  thin,  Bessie  was  taken  by  me, 
and  Clara  and  Inez  were  handed  over  to  Ilcn- 
nigar Wyvcrne,  who  was  to  be  their  gyarjian. 
In  a  short  time  a  difficulty  arose.  Ilennigar 
Wyvcrne  sent  away  (Mara  to  a  school  in 
France,  and  changed  the  name  of  Inez  Mor- 
daunt to  Inez  Wyvcrne.  The  fact  is,  he  had 
a  scheme  of  getting  possession  of  the  Mor- 
daunt property.  Bis  wife  discovered  this, 
and  remonstrated.  They  quarrelled  bitterly, 
and  the  end  of  it  was  that  Mrs.  Wyvcrne  left 
her  husband.  Sure  it  was  a  hard  position  for 
an  honest  woman  to  be  put  in,  but  she  couldn't 
stand  by  and  see  this  thing  done  under  her 
very  nose,  so  she  left  her  husband ;  and,  for 
my  part,  I  honor  her  for  doing  so,  so  I  do.  It 
was  from  her  that  I  heard  of  Ilennigar  Wy- 
vorne's  baseness,  and  I  w  int  and  remonstrated 
with  him,  and  tried  all  I  could  to  bring  him 
back  to  tho  path  of  juty.  I  couldn't  do  much 
with  him.  I  couldn't  find  out  where  he  had 
sint  Clara ;  and,  whin  he  found  that  I  was 
growing  troublesome,  he  sint  you  away,  too, 
Inez  darling.  Well,  years  passed,  and  at 
length  I  heard  from  him  that  Clara  was  dead. 
I  heard  that  she  had  married,  in  Paris,  somo 
adventurer,  and  was  dead  and  buried.  Well, 
not  long  after  that,  you  were  brought  homo 
by  him,  and  were  known  as  Inez  Wyvcrne.  I 
now  determined  to  bring  things  to  a  close.  I 
had  heard  that  poor  Bernal  Slordaunt  was 
dead,  and  I  was  determined  that  whin  you 
came  of  age,  Inez,  you  should  have  your  name 
and  your  rights.  In  order  to  do  this,  I  had 
to  go  and  talk  plainly  to  him.  I  found  that 
he  had  forgotten  about  Bessie,  and  he  saw 
that  all  his  fine  schemes  were  broken  up,  and 
that  I  hat'  him  in  ray  power.  Bo  had  squan- 
dered so  much  of  the  Mordaunt  property  that 
he  could  never  repay.  He  also  had  suffered 
much  in  his  conscience,  for  he  had  one,  tho 
poor  creature,  and  was  a  broken-down  man. 
He  at  length  promised  to  do  all  that  was 
right,  but  begged  me  to  give  him  time.  Ho 
had  come  to  love  you,  Inez  dear ;  and  he  felt 
a  deep  repugnance  to  develop  his  crimes  to 
you ;  he  couldn't  enjure  the  thought  of  con- 
fossing  to  you  the  wrongs  he  had  done.  Well, 
I  pitied  him,  for  wo  were  old  fri.ida— and,  for 


^-  I 


t    i 


m^ 


3:  I 


180 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION'. 


that  matter,  Bernal  IforJaunt  wa3  also — and, 
in  spite  of  Lis  roguery,  I  couldn't  help  feeling 
sorry  for  him.  So  I  gave  him  time,  anil,  at 
the  same  time,  declared  that  I  would  hold  him 
to  his  word.  'Well,  thin  it  was  that  I  sint  lies- 
sio  to  live  with  him,  or  rather  with  yon,  Inez 
darling,  for  I  wanted  the  two  of  ye's  to  hive 
one  another  like  sisters,  an('  I  couldn't  wait 
for  Wyveruc  to  make  his  confession.  '  They'll 
love  one  another  at  first  sight,'  I  thought, '  and 
-svhin  they  find  out  the  blessed  truth,  tliey'U 
love  one  another  all  the  better,  so  they  will ; ' 
and  that's  what  I  see  fulfilled  this  day,  and 
sure  to  glory,  but  it's  mesilf  that's  the  happy 
man  for  being  spared  to  see  it." 

And  Kevin  Magrath  regarded  them  both 
for  a  few  moments  with  a  radiant  face,  and  a 
benevolent,  paternal  smile. 

"At  lingth,"  ho  continued,  "poor  Wy- 
Tcrne's  health  grew  steadily  worse.  It  was 
remorse  that  was  killing  him,  so  it  was, 
neither  more  nor  less  ;  and  the  dread  of  har 
ing  to  tell  the  truth  to  you,  Inez  darling.  So 
he  wint  once  to  the  Continint,  anc'  yo  both 
■wint  with  him,  and  ye  finally  brought  up  at 
Villeneuve.  All  this  time  wc  corresponded, 
and  I  was  able  to  follow  his  trank,  either  for- 
tunately or  unfortunately,  I  hardly  know 
which.  Xow,  yc  know,  Kome  was,  as  a  gin- 
eral  thing,  the  place  that  was  more  like  home 
to  me  thin  any  other,  especially  since  I  had 
turruncd  over  Uessie  to  poor  AVyverne,  or 
rather  to  you,  Inez  darling.  AVell,  one  day  I 
■was  overwhellumned  at  hearing  tliat  Bernal 
llordaunt  had  returruned  from  the  East.  I 
rushed  to  greet  him,  and  for  a  time,  in  the 
joy  I  felt  at  meeting  my  old  frind,  I  forgot  all 
about  the  villany  of  another  old  frind.  At 
lingth,  when  he  infarrumed  me  that  he  was 
going  to  London  as  soon  as  possible,  I  be- 
came filled  with  anxiety.  Circumstances 
were  not  in  a  proper  position.  Such  an  ar- 
rival would  have  forced  on  a  sudden  disclos- 
ure, and  I  knew  that  in  Wyverne's  weak  state 
the  excitement  and  shame  would  kill  liim. 
So  I  did  the  best  I  could.  I  wrote  to  him 
that  Bernal  Mordaunt  had  come,  and  advised 
him  to  fly  for  his  life,  or  even  to  get  up  a  pre- 
tended death.  I  towld  him  to  get  rid  of  the 
Ryerruls,  particularly  Inez — that's  you,  dar- 
ling— for  I  thought  I'd  give  him  a  chance  to 
escape,  and  thin  come  after  ye,  and  tell  ye 
I'Oth  the  whole  story.  I  made  a  few  further 
remarks,  blaming  him  for  entangling  himsilf 
with  a  young  doctor — a  good  enough  young 


felluw,  but  a  great  chock  on  his  movements — 
and  thin  I  mailed  tlic  letter,  and  tried  to  hoiie 
for  the  best.  I  felt  afraid,  though,  in  spifo 
of  all;  a!id  whin,  a  few  days  afterward,  J!cr- 
nal  Mordaunt  left,  I  wint  as  far  as  Milan  willi 
him,  and  bade  him  good-hy  with  my  heart 
full  of  a  chumult  of  continding  emotions. 

'•Howandiver,  there  was  nothing  more  for 
me  to  do,  so  I  wint  to  Churin,  and  thin  iv^i 
Genoa  and  Marseilles  to  Paris.  I  hadn't  been 
there  long  before  I  loarrcncd  the  worst.  I 
Icarrcned  this  from  the  li|)S  of  Bemal  Mor- 
daunt, who  had  come  to  Paris  straight  from 
Villeneuve,  and  was  intinding  to  go  lo  Eng. 
land  as  soon  as  possible.  Some  ecclesiastic.il 
jutics,  however,  compelled  him  to  remain  for 
a  time  in  Paris,  lie  it  was  who  infarrumul 
me  about  the  occurrinccs  at  Villeneuve ;  ami 
he  towld  me  a  thrilling  story  about  being  sint 
for  to  go  to  a  dying  man,  and  finding  this  dy- 
ing man  to  be  Ilennigar  AVyverne.  I  Lad 
alriddy  felt  it  my  juty,  as  an  old  frind,  to  in- 
farrum  Bernal  Mordaunt  to  some  ixtint  about 
Wyverne's  defalcations,  telling  him  at  the 
same  time  about  his  remorse  and  determina- 
tion to  make  amends.  I  did  not  tell  him 
where  he  was,  though,  and  tried  to  dissuade 
him  from  crossing  the  Alps  by  the  Simplon 
road.  But  he  wanted  to  go  that  way  to  sco 
some  people  at  Geneva,  and  I  couldn't  prevint 
him.  lie  had  no  idea  that  you  gyerruls  were 
there,  as  I  had  refrained  from  telling  him,  fur 
reasons  which  you  understand.  Wyverne  was 
almost  gone,  and  but  a  few  words  passed  be- 
tween thim.  But  yer  father  told  me  that  ho 
forgave  Jiim  ivery  thing,  and  told  him  so  to 
his  face." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  any  words  passed 
between  thorn,"  said  Inez,  mournfully,  re- 
membering Blake's  account  of  this  scene. 

"'Deed  and  there  did,  just  as  I'm  telling 
ye.    Who  towld  you  that  no  words  passed  ? " 

"  The — the  doctor" — said  Inez. 

"Dr.  Blake,  is  it?  Well,  there's  some 
misunderstanding,  lie  couldn't  have  known, 
or  ho  couldn't  have  meant  it.  I  had  it  from 
Bernal  Mordaunt  himself;  and,  of  course, 
there  couldn't  have  been  any  mistake.  And, 
besides,  I'm  sure  ye  must  have  misunderstooii 
him,  for  we've  talked  of  that  same  several 
times  since — over  and  over,  so  we  have." 

Inez  was  struck  by  thiis  allusion  to  Dr. 
niake,  and  could  not  help  trying  to  find  out 
more  about  him. 

"  I  daie  say,"  said  she,  "  that  there  may 


!>;, 


movcmciils — 
tried  to  Lopi.' 

)iigh,  ill  spiJo 

fterwaiil,  IJcr- 

113  Milan  with 

ith  my  heart 

emotions. 

hins  more  for 
and  thin  via 

I  liadn't  been 

tlie  worst.     I 

f  Bcmal  Mor- 

Btraiglit  from 

to  go  to  Eng. 

e  eccleaiastie.xl 

to  remain  for 

ho  infarrumul 

illeneuvc;  ami 
bout  being  sint 
finding  this  dj- 

vcrne.  I  biul 
)ld  frind,  to  in- 
me  ixtint  about 
ig   him   at  tlro 

and  determinA- 
1  not  tell  him 
ied  to  dissuade 
by  the  Simplon 
that  way  to  see 
couldn't  prevint 
lu  gyernils  wcio 

telling  him,  fur 
,.  AVyverne  wiis 
ords  passed  be- 
told  mo  that  ho 

told  him  so  to 

ly  words  passed 
mournfully,  re- 
f  this  seeno. 
3t  as  I'm  telling 
words  passed  y" 
I  Inez. 

II,  there's  some 
n't  have  known, 
;.  I  had  it  from 
and,  of  course, 
mistake.  And, 
■e  misundcrstooii 
lat  same  several 
10  we  have." 

allusion  to  Dr. 
ryiiig  to  find  out 

"  (hat  there  may 


A   REVELATION'. 


181 


have  been  some  misundiTstanding  on  my  part, 
but  I  certainly  have  a  (li^tint't  remembrance 
of  tho  meaning  that  I  gathered  from  his 
words,  and  that  wa.«,  that  Mr.  Wyvoruo  died 
without  exchanging  a  word  with  him," 

Kevin  Magrath  smiled  blandly. 

"  Quito  the  contrary,"  said  he,  mournfully  ; 
'it's  as  I  have  said,  and  Ulake  has  mintioncd 
it  to  me  over  and  over.  Do  you  sec,  Inez  dar- 
ling, it  must  be  n.-j  I  have  said." 

"  I  suppose  it  must,"  said  Inez,  "  but  it 
is  very  singular.  Is  it  long  since  you  have 
seen  the  doctor  ?  " 

"  Not  very  long." 

"Is  he  here  yot?"  flic  nsked,  making  a 
further  ellbit  to  learn  something  about 
him. 

"  Oh,  no — he  left  here  some  time  ago." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Inez.  Phe  did  not  like  to  ex- 
hibit too  much  curiosity,  especially  before 
Hcssio,  and  at  such  a  time  as  this,  when  the 
tremendous  mysteries  that  had  surrounded 
their  past  lives  were  being  slowly  unfolded. 
Hcssie,  however,  did  not  ajipcar  to  take  the 
smallest  interest  in  this,  |:^lle  was  looking 
pensively  at  the  floor,  with  a  grave  expres- 
sion that  was  very  unusual  with  her. 

"  lie  left  here  some  time  ago,"  said  Kevin 
Magrath,  pursuing  the  subject  which  Inez  had 
started.  "lie  was  a  fine  young  fellow,  full 
of  life  and  energy,  and  I  don't  wonder  that 
)ioor  AVyverno  took  a  fancy  to  him  ;  though  I 
thought  at  the  time  that,  under  the  circum- 
Ftanccs,  he  was  embarrassing  his  movements. 
The  flight  that  I  intiiiieeted  would  have  been 
difficult,  with  Ulake  as  his  medical  adviser 
and  general  director.  Well,  well,  it's  all  the 
same,  for  Blake  knows  all  about  it  now,  so  he 
docs." 

"  Where  did  ho  go  to  ?  "  asked  Inez,  ab- 
ruptly  unable  to  control  her  curiosity. 

"  Well — he  loft  here — on  an  ndvinture, 
and  ho  wiut  to  Italy,  so  he  did — to  Rome,  in 
fact." 

"  To  Rome  ?  "  repeated  Inez,  in  the  tone 
of  one  who  wished  to  learn  more. 

'■  Yis — to  Rome — and  in  Rome  ho  stayed." 

"  How  odd  !  "  said  Inez.  "  Is  Rome  a  good 
place  for  a  doctor  ?  " 

".Sure,  it's  as  good  as  any  place.  Why 
not  ?  Anyhow,  there  he  stayed,  and  there  he 
is  now." 

Inez  made  no  further  remark.  Rome 
seemed  a  strange  jilace  for  a  doctor  to  go  to, 
yet  so  it  was,  and  the  fact  set  hor  thinking. 


"lie's  settled  there,"  continued  Kevin  JIa. 
grath  after  a  pause.  "  lie's  settled  there,  and 
for  good." 

This  was  not  very  pleasant,  on  the  whole, 
to  Inez.  It  looked  like  neglect  and  forget- 
fulncss  on  IJIake's  part,  and  she  had  expected 
something  dilVercnt,  A  sigh  escaped  lier  in 
spite  of  herself.  But  then  she  reflected  upon 
her  own  sudden  disappearance,  and  thought 
that  Blako  might  have  made  unsuccessful  ef- 
forts to  find  her,  and  have  given  it  up  at  last 
in  despair. 

"  Yis,"  said  Kevin  Magrath  once  more, 
"  he's  settled  there ;  and  there's  no  injucement 
that  I  know  of  tliat'd  draw  him  away." 

"Well,  grandpa  darling,"  said  Bessie  at 
last,  "  we  don't  care  about  this.  We  want  to 
know  more  about  ourselves,  and  our  poor,  dear 
papa,  so  we  do.  You  said  that  ho  came  as 
far  as  Paris.  Now,  what  liappcned  immedi. 
ately  after  that  ?  Did  you  tell  him  then  about 
it  all,  and  about  our  darling,  precious  Inez, 
my  own  sweet  sister — or  did  you  postpone  it 
—or—?" 

"  I'll  tell  ye  all  abor..  it,  Bessie  darling, 
and  you  too,  Inez,  my  jool,  but  not  now,  not 
just  now.  What  comes  after  this  is  a  mour- 
runful  story ;  and  Bessie,  mo  darling,  I  hard- 
ly know  how  I'm  iver  to  tell  it  to  you  at  all 
at  all." 

"  To  me  ! "  exclaimed  Bessie,  in  wonder ; 
"  and  sure,  and  why  not,  thin  V  " 

"  Well,  thin,  it's  jist  because  it  makes  me 
fool  badly.  There's  things  to  say  that  I  don't 
like  to  say  to  yo,  face  to  face.  I'll  tell  it  all 
to  Inez  some  time,  and  she  can  be  after  tell- 
ing it  to  you.  In  this  way,  I'll  allow  tho 
story  to  filter,  as  it  were,  through  her  to 
you." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure,  I  think  it's  very  strange, 
so  I  do,  grandpa  darling ;  but  you're  the  best 
judge,  and,  if  it  is  so  awfully  sad,  you  know, 
why,  perhaps,  I'd  better  hear  it  from  Inez,  or, 
perhaps,  I'd  better  not  liear  it  at  all — that  is, 
if  it  is  really  too  very  awfully  sad — for,  sure, 
I  was  niver  the  one  that  was  inclined  to  listen 
to  bad  news,  unless  it  was  necessary." 

"It  depinds  on  what  ye  call  nieissary. 
Ilowandiver,  ye  can  judge  for  yerself  after- 
ward." 


.i 


I 


183 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION'. 


CUAPTER  XLIV. 

AtL     TUE     FAST     EXPLAINED. 

Tina  was  the  bappiest  day  by  far  tbat 
Inez  had  known  for  a  long  time.  The  advent 
of  Bessie,  the  restoration  to  her  proper  posi- 
tion in  life,  the  society  of  friends,  all  these 
-were  unspeakably  sweet  to  one  who  had  suf- 
fered as  she  had.  But,  above  all,  the  discovery 
that  Bessie  was  her  own  sister  formed  the 
climax  of  all  these  joys  ;  and  Inez,  after  the 
first  natural  bewilderment  had  passed,  gave 
lierself  up  to  the  delight  of  this  new  relation- 
Bhip.  As  for  Bessie,  she  was,  if  possible, 
still  more  excited.  Natunv  y  of  a  more  de- 
monstrative disposition  than  Inez,  she  sur- 
passed her  in  her  exhibitions  of  allection  and 
delight,  and  overwhelmed  her  with  caresses. 
Such  a  revelation  as  this  gave  them  material 
for  endless  conversations,  exclamations,  and 
explanations.  Each  one  had  to  tell  all  about 
her  life  and  her  past  reminiscences  ;  each  one 
had  to  give  a  minute  account  of  the  state  of 
her  affections  with  regard  to  the  other;  and 
all  the  past  was  thus  opened  up  by  the  two 
in  so  far  as  it  might  afford  interest  to  one 
another.  Each  one,  howcve.-,  instinctively 
avoided  the  more  mournful  ))eriod3  in  that 
past;  and,  as  Inez  said  nothing  of  her  im- 
prisonment, 80  Bessie  said  nothing  of  the 
mournful  events  at  Mordaunt  Manor. 

As  to  the  sufferings  through  which  Inez 
had  gone — her  journey  to  Paris,  the  dis- 
covery of  her  father's  death,  her  imprison- 
ment, the  examination  of  the  letters,  her  sus- 
picions, her  fears,  her  flight,  her  illness,  and 
her  misery,  all  these  constituted  a  part  of  her 
life  upon  which  no  light  had  yet  been  thrown. 
Yet  Kevin  Magrath  had  shown  all  the  impres- 
8ions  which  phe  had  formed  about  him  from 
his  letter  to  Wyverne  to  be  erroneous  ;  and, 
from  what  she  had  seen  of  him,  she  did  not 
doubt  that  he  would  account  for  every  other 
difficult)',  and  prove  to  her  that  she  had  been 
in  every  respect  deceived  in  the  opinions 
■which  she  had  formed  about  him.  The  re- 
mainder of  his  story  she  knew  would  be  as 
clear,  as  open,  and  as  natural,  as  the  first 
part  had  been  ;  and  he  himself  would  stand 
completely  vindicated. 

On  the  following  morning  Kevin  Magrath 
came  to  breakfast  with  them,  and,  after 
breakfast,  Bessie  withdrew. 

"  I  know,  grandpa  dear,"  said  she,  "  that 


you'd  rather  not  have  me  just  now,  so  I'll 
go,  and  I'll  hear  it  from  Inez,  if  she  chooses 
to  tell  me ;  and,  if  she  does  not  choose  to 
tell,  why,  I'd  very  much  rather  not  hear. 
And,  what's  more,  I  won't  even  think  about 
it.    Good-by,  you  two  dear  jools  of  life." 

With  these  words  Bessie  retired,  and  Inez 
waited  for  the  remainder  of  Kevin  Magrath's 
story. 

Ue  regarded  her  for  a  few  moments  in  si- 
lence, with  an  expression  on  his  face  that  was 
at  once  affectionate  and  paternal,  and  with  a 
gentle  smile  on  his  lips. 

"  Inez,  me  darling,"  said  he,  "  yo've  suf- 
fered from  me  more  than  I  dare  to  think  of, 
but  ye'll  see  that  I  wasn't  to  blame,  and  that 
I've  really  suffered  as  much  as  you  have  out 
of  pure  sympathy  and  vixation.  But  I'll  go 
on  in  order,  and  jist  tell  a  plain,  consicutivo 
story. 

"  Well,  thin,  your  poor  father,  Bemul 
Mordaimt,  came  here  to  Pari?,  as  I  said,  and 
here  I  found  him.  It  was  from  me  that  ho 
first  heard  that  one  of  his  daughters  was 
dead.  This  was  his  eldest,  Clara,  his  favorite. 
Whin  I  say  she  was  his  favorite,  ye'll  onder- 
stand  me.  Ye  see,  you  were  only  a  littlo 
thing — a  baby,  in  fact — barely  able  to  prattle, 
while  Clara  was  many  years  older,  and  had 
been  thus  the  love  and  joy  of  her  father  jears 
before  you  were  born.  Ye'll  not  be  pained 
whin  I  say  that  he  could  better  have  spared 
you  than  her.  Anyhow,  so  it  was,  and,  con- 
sequintly,  when  he  heard  that  Clara  was  dead, 
it  was  a  worse  blow  to  him  than  if  a  man  had 
knocked  him  down  sinseless.  It  took  all  the 
life  and  soul  out  of  him.  For  he  had  'ieea 
broken  down  out  in  China,  or  Japan,  orlnjin, 
by  overwork,  and,  whin  he  turruncd  liis  steps 
homeward,  it  was  his  children  that  he  thought 
of  most ;  and  by  his  children  he  meant,  most 
of  all,  Clara.  So,  whin  he  heard  that  she 
was  dead,  it  was  with  him  for  a  time  as 
though  he  had  lost  the  last  tie  tliat  bound 
him  to  this  wurruld  ;  and  he  couldn't  think 
of  any  thing  but  her.  He  brooded  over  this. 
Wc  wint  out  to  her  grave  in  Pure-la-Chaise, 
and  thin  he  forrumed  the  desigL  of  convoying 
her  remains  away,  and  depositing  thini  l>y  the 
side  of  the  remains  of  his  wife.  Now  she — 
your  poor  mother,  Inez  darling — was  buried 
at  Rome." 

"  Rome  !"  exclaimed  Inez,  in  wonder. 

"  Yis,  at  Rome,  and  to  that  place  your  fa. 
ther  determined  to  convey  the  remains   of 


M.ijii: 


:;i*. 


ALL  THE  PAST  EXPLAINED. 


168 


now,  so  I'll 
slio  cboosc3 
it  cliooso  to 
not  hear. 

tliink  about 
of  life." 
red,  and  Inez 
in  Magrath'3 

oments  in  si- 

faco  tliat  was 

and  with  a 

"  ye've  suf- 
0  to  tliink  of, 
nie,  and  that 
you  have  out 

But  I'll  go 
1,  consicutivo 

ither,  Bernal 
as  I  said,  and 
\  nic  that  ho 
aughters  was 
1,  his  favorite. 
B,  Tc'll  onder- 

only  a  littlo 
ible  to  prattle, 
ilder,  and  had 
?r  father  years 
lot  lie  pained 
■  have  spared 
was,  and,  con- 
)lara  was  dead, 
n  if  a  man  had 
It  took  all  tho 

Lc  had  'lecQ 
apan,  orlnjia, 
uncd  his  steps 
lat  he  thought 
10  meant,  most 
eard  tiiat  she 
for  a  time  as 
ie  that  bound 
wouldn't  think 
Kled  over  this. 
:' (ire-Ia-Chai.se, 
L  of  conveying 
iig  thim  by  tho 
'.  Now  plie — 
I — was  buried 

n  wonder, 
place  your  fa. 
e  remains   of 


Clara.  lie  had  gone  after  your  mother's 
death  to  Rome  to  prepare  for  tho  priesthood, 
and  his  love  for  his  lost  wife  had  injticed  him 
to  bring  her  body  there,  ."^o  now  ho  resolved 
to  take  Clara's  body.  IJcsides,  ho  had  to  go 
back  to  Kome  onco  more,  though  ho  would 
liavc  had  time  to  go  for  you  before  returning 
there  ;  and  it's  a  thousand  pities  he  didn't ; 
and  it  was  meself  that  was  niver  tired  of 
urging  him  to  do  that  same;  but  no,  ho  was 
brooding  all  the  time  over  his  lo?it  iliiu!;hter, 
tho  child  of  his  best  love,  and  had  thin  no 
thought  of  you — and  oh,  but  it's  tho  pity  he 
didn't  go  for  you,  Inez  darling  ! 

"  Well,  I  kept  witli  him.  We  had  the  re- 
mains of  Clara  ixhumed,  and  took  thim  to 
Rome,  and  placed  tliiru  by  the  side  of  her 
mother's  body.  Well,  after  this,  I  tried  to 
turrun  his  thoughts  to  you — to  wean  hitn 
from  these  dead  loves,  and  bring  to  his  heart 
the  warmth  of  a  living  love.  I  told  him  of 
you,  and  I  told  him  of  Bessie.  Of  Bessie  he 
would  hear  nothing.  There  was  tho  same 
coldness  and  avirsion  wiiich  I  had  noticed 
years  liL-foro,  and  I  could  do  nothing  with 
him.  lie  had  niver  loved  her,  so  I  had  noth- 
ing to  work  on  there  ;  but  with  you  it  was 
different,  for  ho  recollected  his  little  baby 
Inez,  named  after  his  wife.  He  had  her  por- 
trait onco  with  the  portraits  of  tho  others, 
and  spoke  of  this  with  much  emotion.  At 
lingth  his  love  for  you  grew  strong  enough  to 
draw  him  away  from  tho  dead,  and,  finally, 
tho  thought  of  you  filled  all  his  mind. 

"  So,  you  see,  we  set  out  for  England.  We 
reached  Marseilles  and  proceeded  to  Paris. 
Tho  journey,  however,  was  very  fatiguing  to 
him,  and  by  the  time  we  reached  here  he  was 
nnablo  to  go  one  step  farther.  lie  took  to 
his  bed,  and  out  of  that  bed  he  niver  rose. 
He  had  overtaxed  his  strength,  and  tho  sor- 
row which  he  had  enjured  had  greatly  pros- 
trated him.  For  a  time  ho  hoped  against 
hope.  He  would  not  sind  for  you,  though  I 
urge<l  him,  because  ho  wished  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  going  on  to  you,  and  was  afraid 
of  frightening  you.  But  it  was  not  to  be; 
he  grew  worse  and  worse,  and  at  last,  whin  it 
was  almost  over,  whin  he  could  not  write,  he 
Bint  for  you. 

"  Even  then  ho  tried  to  ease  tho  blow — 
poor  man — though  he  only  made  it  worse. 
Ho  did  not  wish  the  letter  to  come  from  a 
stranger.  He  dictated  it  to  me— but  did  not 
wish  it  to  seem  dictated,  for  fear  of  frighten- 


ing you.  '  Kevin,'  says  he — '  she'll  be  fright- 
ened,'  says  he — 'just  write  it  as  if  I  was  writ- 
ing it,'  says  he — '  let  her  think  it's  from  mo 
own  hand,  and  don't  say  a  word  about  it's  be- 
ing dictated — just  take  it  from  mo  own  lips.' 
Tiiat's  what  ho  saiii,  and  that's  just  what  I 
did — and,  for  that  matter,  I  don't  s\ipposo  yo 
ever  thought  otherwise  than  that  poor  liemal 
wrote  it  with  his  own  hand  ;  but  I  mintion  it 
now  so  as  to  show  ye,  Inez  darling,  that  yer 
poor  father  was  very  fur  gone  when  that  let- 
ter w.is  written. 

"  So  far  gone  was  he,  indeed,  that  on  tho 
next  day  all  was  over.  Early  that  morning 
he  implored  me  oneo  more  to  write  to  you. 
'  Kevin  lad,'  says  he,  '  let  her  think  it's  from 
me  own  hand.  It'll  comfort  her  more — if  sho 
loves  me — to  think  sho  has  something  from 
me.  Kevin,  I  was  to  blame  for  not  going  to 
her  first.'  Then  he  hurried  me  on,  and  I 
wrote  word  for  word  just  as  he  spoke — with 
all  his  incoherence  and  disconnected  words— 
and  I  was  pleased  with  his  allusions  to  my- 
self— for  sure  I  was  the  only  one  left  for  yo 
to  look  to  after  he  had  gone.  And  I  tell  yoti 
this  now  about  this  letter.  The  letter  itself 
won't  perhaps  be  so  pricious  in  your  eyes, 
Inez  darling — but  tho  love  of  that  father  ought 
to  be  still  more  pricious,  who  died  while  lav- 
ishing upon  you  the  last  treasures  of  his 
love. 

"  Well,"  continued  Kevin  Magrath,  after  a 
thoughtful  pause,  "  at  that  hour  there  was  ono 
to  whom  he  ought  to  have  given  a  thought — 
vis — one  to  whom  he  ought  to  have  given 
many  thoughts — one  who  should  have  had  at 
least  a  share — yis,  equal  shares  with  you,  Inez 
— in  his  love.  I  mean  my  poor  Bessie.  Niv- 
er did  I  cease  to  try  to  bring  before  him  that 
disowned,  that  injured  child — his  own  child- 
cast  out  from  the  moment  of  her  birth — ig- 
nored— disliked — hated.  Oh,  sure,  but  it  was 
meself  that  was  heart-broken  about  that 
s.amc;  and  me  trying  all  the  time  to  injuco 
him  to  show  her,  if  not  affection,  at  least 
common  justice.  But  my  efforts  were  all  in 
vain.  I  could  not  get  him  to  feel  the  slight- 
est interest  in  her.  There  was  coldness,  and 
even  aversion,  in  his  manner  wheniver  I  intro- 
juced  that  subject.  When  I  spoke  about  her, 
he  would  bo  at  first  fretful ;  then,  overcoming 
this,  he  would  take  up  an  attiohude  of  patient 
enjurance,  like  one  who  was  putting  a  great 
constraint  upon  himself.  And  oh !  but  my 
heart  bled  for  the  poor  child.     I  knew  what 


!    I 


t 


s 

J.  ['  i 

i.1 

I     I   . 


184 


A\   OrP:\   QIESTIOX. 


Mio  was.  I  felt  that,  if  lie  could  but  see  her, 
he  niu.it  love  Iicr— yet  hero  he  was,  turning 
himself  away,  witliout  one  word  to  send  lior, 
even  from  hirt  dcatli-liod  And,  Inez  daiiiii^', 
I,  who  know  Hossic,  f,  who  know  licr  tender, 
gentle,  loving  heart,  her  susceptible  iiaturo, 
lior  sweet,  innocent,  childlike  ways — I  know 
this,  that,  if  she  was  aware  of  the  aversion  of 
lier  father  for  her,  her  heart  would  break,  so 
it  would — she  would  die,  so  she  would.  I'oor, 
poor,  darlin;^  liessie!  disowiUMi  iind  outcast 
from  lier  fatlier's  heart,  from  lier  biitli  till 
Lis  death  ! 

"Ami  thi.--,"  continued  Kevin  Magrath, 
vith  manliest  emotion,  "this  is  what  I  can 
never  tell  her,  never  I  don't  even  know  how 
to  bepin  to  tell  her.  I  can't  begin  to  ndntion 
it.  And  therefore,  me  chihl,  I  tell  it  to  you, 
hoping  that  you  may  find  some  gentle  way  of 
letting  her  know  all  about  it.  You  may  suc- 
ceed wlierc  I  would  fail." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Inez,  mournfully.  "  Oh, 
no,  I  could  never,  n  -er  tell  it.  Tliere  is  no 
way  by  wliicli  such  a  i  '"g  could  In;  told.  I 
could  not  have  the  he;.  ''•  liint  at  it.  1 
could  not  even  begin  to  teji  -'bout  that 

last  scene,  for  fear  she  would  a.  'ue  what 
message  ho  had  left  for  her.  And  o..  '  how 
Fad  not  to  be  able  to  give  any  message,  how- 
ever formal  or  commonplace !  Oh,  how  cruel 
it  was — how  cruel !  And,  poor,  tenilcr-hcart- 
cJ  Bessie,  with  her  affectionate  nature  and 
her  heart  of  lov^, ! " 

Kevin  Magrrtth  v. lied  nis  eyes. 

"  We  c.in't  iv.r  lintlon  it,"  said  he,  "  a.s 
far  as  1  can  8C'\  I*,  can't  be  done,  unless  you 
may  find  i-rmM  ivay  some  day,  and  tliat  I 
doubt,  so  I  do.  We'll  have  to  smother  it  up, 
and  avoid  tlie  subject.  Hut  oh!  it  was  a  sin, 
60  it  was,  to  pass  out  of  the  worruld  in  such 
a  way.  And  ye  don't  think,  thin,  nu;  child, 
that  ye  could  find  any  way  to  break  it  to 
her?" 

"  \o,"  said  Inez  ;  "  impossible.  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  S|)eak  of  thin  suljject  at  all, 
or  to  allow  her  to  speak  of  it.  It  seems  to 
inc  that,  while  she  was  hearing  of  his  love  for 
Clara  and  for  me,  she  wovdd  feel  an  intoler- 
able pang  at  finding  herself  cast  out.  Xo,  she 
ought  never  to  know — never  ! " 

Kevin  Magrath  sighed. 

"Well,"  continued  he,  "that  letter  was 
the  last  act  of  your  poor  father,  for  he  died 
not  long  after;  and,  for  my  part,  I  was  over- 
whellu  iCd.     1  knew  that  vou  might  be  com- 


ing, me  child,  ami  I  «as  iiliaid  to  niicl  you— 
afraid  to  stay  and  be  the  witness  of  your 
grief.  Xow,  your  poor  father  had  made  me 
promise  that  I  would  have  him  buried  by  tin? 
side  of  his  wife  and  eliild,  in  Kome;  and  so, 
when  he  was  removed  from  the  house,  I  at 
once  went  to  fuKil  my  promise,  ami  started 
for  Kome  with  his  renuiins,  afraid  to  wait  and 
meet  you,  and  leaving  to  others  the  task  of 
breaking  to  you  the  awful  news.  The  worst 
of  it  was,  it  was  your  poor  father  himself  who 
had  put  mc  in  such  a  position,  by  obstinately 
refusing  to  write,  or  to  let  inc  write,  until  it 
was  too  late.  ...  So,  me  child,  I  took  away 
the  mortal  remains  of  my  frind,  and  of  your 
father,  and  I  conveyed  tliiiu  to  Home — and 
there  I  buried  tliini,  by  the  side  of  his  wife 
and  his  child,  your  sister  Clarn,  and  there 
they  all  are  now  side  by  side." 

There  was  a  long  silence  now. 

"  Is  there  a  cemetery,  or  are  tliey  b\iried 
in  some  church " "  askeil  Inez,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"There  is  a  ciinetcry  in  IJome,"  said  Ke- 
vin Magrath,  slowly  and  solemnly,  "  the  likes 
of  which  doesn't  exist  in  all  the  wide  wur- 
ruld — a  cimetery,  eighteen  hundred  years  old, 
filled  with  the  mowldering  rimnants  of  apos- 
tles, and  saints,  and  martyrs,  and  coufissors — 
a  cimetery,  to  lie  in  which  r(d)S  death  of  half 
its  terrors,  and  there  now  repose  nil  that  is 
mortal  of  your  father,  your  mother,  aiid  your 
sister." 

"Ohl"  cried  Inez,  "what  place  can  that 
bo?  Is  there  such  a  cemetery?  What  is 
its  name  ?     I  have  never  heard  of  it." 

"  The  cimetery  that  I  speak  of,"  said 
Kevin  Magrath,  solenndy,  "is  known  as — tlie 
Koman  Catacombs." 

"The  Houian  Catacondis  !  "  repeated  Inez, 
in  tt  voice  full  of  awe. 

"  The  IJoman  Catacombs,"  said  Kevin 
Magrath.  "  There  they  lie,  side  by  side — 
they  who  loved  one  another  on  earth,  ami 
who  are  thus  joined  in  death,  awaiting  the 
resurrection  morn." 

Inez  made  no  remark,  and  a  long  silence 
followed.  Kevin  Magrath  was  the  first  to 
break  it,  and  he  went  on  to  continue  hi.s 
story  : 

"Whin  I  left,"  said  he,  "I  told  (iounod 
that  you  were  coming,  and  I  told  him  what  to 
do.  I  told  him  about  the  sorrow  you'd  be 
in,  and  urged  him  to  attind  upon  you,  and  do 
all  that  he  could  for  you.     I  knew  he  could 


ALL   Tin:    PAST    IlXri.AlNKP. 


185 


lll''('l    VOM— 
SM    of    JOUf 

iimilo  1110 
riiul  liy  till! 
ic;  11  ml  80, 
house,  I  lit 

Mill    StaitL'll 

I  "iiit  mill 

10  tiifk  of 

Tiu"  worst 

liiiist'll'  hIjo 

olistiiiatc'ly 

he,  until  it 

tiiok  nnny 

ml  of  your 

ItoMio — iiml 

of  liis  wife 

,   mill   tluMO 


tin  y  liuiie'l 
ill     II    low 

0,"  ^a'ul  Kc- 
,  "  tlio  likes 
0  wiij(!  wur- 
!(1  years  olil, 
Ilt:4  of  apoi- 
eonfissoi-s — 
eulU  of  half 
e  nil  that  is 
.'I',  niid  your 

aee  can  that 
?  AVhat  is 
'  it." 

k  of,"  said 
awn  as — the 

pcatetl  Inez, 

saiil    Kevin 

!   liy  side — 

eaith,  niid 

iwailiiig  the 

long  silence 
the  first  to 
ontinnc   liis 

old  (ioiinod 
him  what  to 
)w  you'd  be 
yon,  and  do 
ew  lie  could 


do  iiothiii;^  to  iiUeviato  sueli  Borrow  xs  you 
would  have  ;  so  I  laid  (Treat  stress  upon  his 
keepiiij;  watch  over  joii,  so  ns  to  lind  out 
your  wants.  In  fuel,  I  ovprwhelluincd  him 
Willi  diiietions.  AVell,  I  wint  away,  and  I 
stayed  ftwny  for  weeks,  waiting  iinpatiently 
till  the  time  whin  I  inifrht  siip|)0se  your  frrief 
to  be  moileralcd  ;  and  thin  1  came  buck  ;  and 
1  assure  ye,  me  elilld,  I  was  fairly  trembling 
Willi  agilution  at  the  thought  of  meeting  you 
in  your  bereavemint.  And  what  do  you  think 
awaited  ine  ?  AVlnit  1  Sure,  you  may  imagine, 
(iounod,  with  his  bewildermint,  and  the  owld 
hag  Itrisel,  both  voluble  and  eloquint  about 
your  iseapc.  lsea[K'!  As  if  1  iver  mint  any 
thing  else!  Iseape!  'Why,  it  was  as  if  it 
bad  been  a  prison  they  had  made  for  you — 
and  so  it  was,  am!  nothing  else  in  the  wide 
worruld.  The  fool!  the  beast!  the  idiot! 
ho  had  utterly  ini?understood  nic  ;  I  had  en- 
joined njion  him  to  watch  you  like  a  servant, 
and  lie  had  walclied  you  like  a  jailer.  I  un- 
derstood well  how  your  nature  must  have 
chafed  against  restraint  and  surveillance; 
and  thin,  wliin  I  thought  of  you,  all  alone 
after  your  maid  had  pone,  nie  heart  fairly 
ached  for  you,  so  it  did.  My  very  desire  to 
spare  you  pain  had  caused  fresh  pain  to  you, 
Inez  darling  ;  and  you  were  lost  to  me,  for  1 
dared  not  search  for  you.  I  was  afraid  that, 
if  I  did,  you  would  misunderstand  it  all,  and 
bo  all  the  more  terrified ;  and  what's  more, 
even  if  I  had  fuiind  you,  I  sliould  not  have 
been  able  to  look  you  iii  the  face.  I  couldn't 
have  spoken  one  word.  I  wrote  fianlic  let- 
ters to  Bessie,  and  she  wrote  back  letters  full 
of  anxiety,  tolling  me  that  she  had  hoard 
nothing  about  yon,  and  knew  nothing.  T  de- 
clare to  you,  mo  child,  those  days  were  the 
worst  I  iver  know  in  all  my  life.  And  so  it 
wint  on,  and  I  was  iu  holplessniss  and  dispair 
until  this  blessed  time,  until  yesterday,  wlieu 
I'.essio  horsilf  came  with  tlio  glad  nens  about 
you  ;  and  I  hurried  her  away  to  meet  you,  and 
waited  here,  with  me  old  heart  throbbing  cliu- 
miiltuously  while  she  was  gone.  But  at  last 
she  relurruned,  and  you  with  licr;  and  thin  I 
had  a  chance  to  explain,  in  a  grailual  way, 
and  at  least  to  let  you  know  that,  if  you  had 
suft'ored,  I,  at  least,  was  innoccni.  And  sure 
to  glory,  but  it's  lueself  that  was  the  happy 
man  last  night." 

So  ended  Kevin  ^fagrath's  story,  and  that 
story  bad  sunk  deep  into  the  soul  of  Inez. 

Many  conclusions  had  she  gathered  from 


that  story;  and,  ns  she  listenud  tu  its  detuilsi 
one  by  one  the  frightful  dangers  that  seemed 
to  have  hovered  about  her  past,  or  appeared 
to  impend  over  her  f;resent,  wer(!  di.-pellcd. 
.Vt  length,  tliey  all  seemed  no  more  than  the 
creations  of  licr  own  fancy. 

The  letter  to  Wyvcrne,  wliieh  had  been- 
the  first  of  these  troubles,  was  fully  ex- 
plained. A\'yvorne"s  emolion  at  its  nception, 
his  terror  of  Bernal  Jlordaunt,  his  d\ing  dec- 
laration— all  these  were  made  plain,  all  except 
his  as-ertion  that  Dr.  Blake  was  his  son,  and 
on  this  she  laid  but  little  stress  now,  since 
she  thought  that  she  could  a.-k  about  th.U  at 
any  oilier  time.  With  these  were  also  ex- 
plained the  similarity  in  the  handwriting  of 
the  diffi'rcnt  letters,  the  mystery  that  had 
overwhelmed  her  in  her  prison-house,  the 
ubsence  of  Kevin  Magrath,  the  espionage  and 
strict  guardianship  of  (Iounod — all  these  were 
explained,  and  the  terrors  that  they  had  ex- 
cited vanished  like  so  many  dreams.  Out  of 
all  this  there  remained  ]>rominent  ^everal 
tilings  : 

First.  Kevin  Magrath  was  a  bigli-minded, 
noble-liearted  man — the  fiieiul  of  her  father, 
of  Bessie,  and  of  herself. 

Secondly.  Bessie  was  lior  own  sister. 

Thirdly.  Iler  father,  her  mother,  and  her 
sister  Clam,  were  all  buried  at  Rome. 

Fourthl)'.  Dr.  Blake  was  also  at  Rome — 
"  sctded  there,''  as  Kevin  ilagrath  bad  ex- 
pressed it. 

"Inez  darling,  nio  child,"  said  Kevin 
Magrath,  afver  a  long  silence,  "  I  am  very 
anxious  to  go  to  Rome,  am',  if  ye  would  like 
to  go  to  see  the  graves  of  yer  father,  yer 
mother,  an!  yer  sister,  I  should  like  to  show 
them  to  ye;  but,  at  the  same  time,  if  ye  feel 
reluctant  about  going,  it's  no  matter.  Bessie 
is  anxious  to  go  and  fulfil  a  daiigliler's  juty 
to  those  who  niver  perforrumcd  a  parent's 
I)art  to  her;  and  I  thought  that  you,  the  dear 
child  of  their  care  and  their  love,  might  have 
the  same  feiTings." 

At  this  proposal  Inez  at  once  thought  of 
the  far-ott'  graves  of  those  dear  ones  whom 
she  had  lost,  and  ther,-  irose  a  sudden  long- 
ing to  visit  in  death  tli  >se  whom  she  had 
failed  to  meet  in  life.  \Vith  these  came  other 
thoughts,  less  holy,  yet  equally  strong— she 
thought  of  Bl.ikc.  Yes,  Rome  was  a  place 
which  in-esonted  stronger  attractions  to  her 
than  any  other. 

"  Rome  I  "  said  she.     "  Oh,  how  I  long  to 


186 


AN   Ol'EX  QUESTIOX. 


go    there ! 
me:" 


And    will    you     really    take 


"  I  sbould  be  glad  beyond  all  things  if  you 
would  come  with  us,"  said  Kevin  Magrath. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE  TENDERNESS  OF  BESSIE. 

Kane  and  6wyn  hurried  on  to  Paris  as 
soon  ns  possible,  and  were  not  more  than 
twenty-four  hours  behind  Bessie.  On  the 
following  day  they  arrived  there,  and  drove 
first  to  Kane's  lodgings.  Then  they  went  to 
the  place  where  Inez  had  been,  and  learned 
that  Bessie  had  taken  lier  away,  and  that 
they  had  gone  to  the  Hotel  Gascoigne.  This 
news  did  not  in  any  way  lessen  the  anxiety 
that  Kane  had  felt ;  for  it  seemed  to  him  that 
this  movement  might  carry  both  of  them  into 
the  very  hands  of  their  worst  enemy.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  there  could  be  no  cer- 
tainty of  their  safety  until  ho  could  see  Inez 
herself,  and  find  out  what  her  circumstances 
were;  when,  if  there  was  really  any  appear- 
ance of  danger,  he  might  warn  her,  or  con- 
front Magrath  himself.  So  groat  were  his 
fears  now,  that  he  iiardly  expected  to  find 
cither  of  the  ladies,  but  was  rather  inclined 
to  fear  that  Kevin  'i.iagrath,  the  moment  that 
lie  found  them  Loih  in  his  power,  liad  con- 
trived some  specious  pretext  for  conveying 
them  to  some  other  place,  where  they  would 
be  out  of  reacli.  It  was  with  the  dread  of 
this  at  his  heart,  that  be  accompanied  Gwyn 
to  the  Hotel  Gascoigne. 

But  the  first  thing  that  they  heard  on 
asking  after  tlic  ladies  drove  away  all  fear. 
They  were  both  there,  and  Kevin  Magrath 
was  there  also.  Kane  was  hardly  prepared 
for  such  good  news ;  and  for  a  mom-mt  did 
not  know  what  there  was  for  him  to  do.  He 
had  come  here  in  all  haste  as  the  champion 
of  the  oppressed,  but  the  comfortable  sur- 
roundings of  Inez  put  the  idea  of  any  very 
imminent  danger  out  of  his  head.  She  had 
Bessie  with  lier,  and  here  was  Gwyn,  who 
could  be  an  additional  protector. 

Gwyn  hurried  up  after  the  gar;on  to  the 
apartments  whore  his  wife  was,  f<,llowed  by 
Kane.  On  reaching  the  hinding,  t.iero  was  a 
sudden  cry  of  joy,  and  a  beautiful  being,  all 
in  the  glory  of  golden  hair  and  azure  eyes, 
Hung  herself  into  G-vyn's  arms. 


"  Sure,  didn't  I  know  you'd  bo  here  this 
blessed  morning,  Gwynnio  darling  ? "  cried 
Bessie ;  "  didn't  I  say  you  couldn't  s  ly  more 
than  a  day  without  me  and  be  alive  ?  and  bo 
I've  been  waiting  here  in  the  hall  for  hours 
and  hours,  so  I  have.  But  you're  here  at 
last,  and  that's  all  I  want.  And  oh,  ain't  you 
very,  very  much  fatigued,  darling?  and  were 
you  ever  quite  so  happy  in  your  life  ?  " 

To  this  torrent  of  loving  words  Gwyn  said 
nothing.  Such  a  reception  overwhelmed  liim. 
He  had  expected  some  coldness — some  hang- 
ing back.  He  had  prepared  himself  for  some 
humiliation  on  his  own  pa-t.  But  this  was 
the  reality  that  awaited  him — the  utter  for- 
getfulness  of  every  thing  but  her  love — this 
perfect  forgiveness  that  did  not  leave  room 
for  any  attempt  at  explanations.  He  could 
not  utter  a  word,  but  pressed  her,  i.i  silence 
and  with  moistened  eyes,  to  his  heart. 

"  And  Kane,  too  !  "  cried  Bessie,  as  soon 
as  she  could  free  herself  from  Gwyn's  arms; 
"  sure,  but  you're  welcome,  Kane  dear,  and 
it's  great  news  that  I've  got  to  tell.  Inez  is 
here,  safe  and  happy,  and  you'll  want  to  see 
her." 

She  held  out  her  little  hand  with  a  beam- 
ing sniilo,  and  Kane  pressed  it  teiuiorly. 

"  You'll  want  to  see  Inez,"  said  Bessie, 
as  Kane  hesitated. 

By  this  time  Kane  had  folt  himself  some- 
what r'  trop.  The  exceeding  and  unexpected 
wiirmth  of  this  greeting  between  husband  and 
wife  did  rot  seem  warranted  by  so  short  a 
separation,  even  on  the  grounds  of  their  being 
yet  hardly  out  of  their  honey.nioon  ;  but  still, 
there  it  was,  and  he  saw  the  intense  apitation 
of  Gwyn,  and  suspected  that  Bomothing  had 
taken  place  before  Bessie's  flight  from  Iliith- 
von  Towers  which  had  caused  that  flight  and 
Gwyn's  present  emotion.  Ho  saw  that  some 
explanations  or  other  wore  probably  required 
by  those  two,  and  therefore  coi'cluL^d  to  re- 
tire for  the  present. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  at  lengt..,  •  -  think  I'll 
look  in  again.     She  is  well,  you  say  ?  " 

''  Bei'er  than  I  ever  knew  hor.  But  you'd 
better  come  in  and  see  ber.  She'll  be  awful- 
ly disappointed." 

"  (111,  I'll  come  ogain  some  time  to-day," 
said  Kane;  "it's — it's — a  liUle  inconvenient 
just  now — uh,  under  the  circumstances — so 
I'll  only  ask  you  to  remenibci  me  very  kindly 
to  her,  and  toll  hor  that  I  hope  to  sec  her  thig 
evening." 


Hi         a 


THE   TENDERNESS  OF  BESSIE. 


18T 


Bessie  urged  him  a  little  longer,  though 
rather  more  faintly,  but  Kane  persisted  in 
his  refusal,  and  at  length  retreated,  leaving 
the  husband  and  wife  to  themselves. 

AH  this  had  taken  place  on  the  landing 
of  the  stairway.  As  soon  as  Kane  retired, 
Bessie  took  Gwyn's  arm  fondly  and  led  him 
to  her  rcGiUS.  Inez  was  not  there,  and  Gwyn 
was  better  pleased  to  be  alone  with  his  wife. 

Here  they  sat  down  side  by  side,  quite 
lover-fashion,  while  Gwyn  was  so  overcome 
by  his  unexpected  happiness  that  he  had  not 
yet  found  words,  but  sat  devouring  her  with 
his  eyes.  Bessie  looked  tenderly  at  him,  and, 
with  one  of  her  characteristic  smiles,  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Sure,  I  oughtn't  to  be  so  forgiving,  so  I 
oughtn't,  and  there  you  have  it.  But  oh,  I 
was  so  awfully  glad  to  see  you,  you  know, 
Gwynnie  dear." 

"And — do — do  you  really  for — forgive 
rae  ?  "  faltered  Gwyn. 

"  Oh,  come  now,  we  won't  talk  about  it, 
sure  actions  speak  louder  than  words,  and 
my  actions  have  spoken  very,  very  loudly, 
Gwynnie  darling,  so  they  have." 

"  0  darling,  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
forgive  mvself." 

"Oh,  como,  Gwynnie,  sure  we  won't  talk 
about  it  at  ali,  at  all.  It  was  only  a  miser- 
able fancy  of  yours,  so  it  was,  a  wild  deluder- 
ing  notion,  but,  tell  me,  sure  you  didn't  go 
and  tell  Kane  auout  it  then  ?  " 

''Tell  K.^ne !  Of  course  not.  darling. 
How  could  I  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not  How  could  you  ?  Sure- 
ly not." 

"  I  d'^.re  say  he's  noticed  trouble  on  my 
face  an  J  in  my  manner." 

"  Like  enough,  for  it  was  very,  r.ry  Ptid, 
and  is  one  of  those  things,  Gwynnie  dariing, 
that  one  really  can't  think  fibout.  >;s  jiosi- 
lively  too  heart-breaking.  And  I  won't  say  I 
didn't  feel  cut  up  myself,  for  I  did,  but  you 
know  I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  have  a  scene 
with  you  about  it,  and  I  ihought,  Gwynnie, 
that  the  best  way  to  do  was  to  leave  you  to 
yourself,  when  you'd  fiiid  out  your  mistake 
the  sooner,  so  you  would  ;  and  my  first  inten- 
tion was  only  to  go  to  Mordaunt  Manor;  but, 
on  my  way  there,  I  thoiiglit  of  poor,  dear, 
darling  Ine:";,  and  decided  t'.iat  it  would  be 
very  much  nicer  and  better  for  her,  and  for 
you,  and  for  myse!-',  to  come  hero  and  see 
her.    And  that's  just  the  very  thing  I  did. 


you  know,  and  so  yoi  see,  Gwynnie  darling, 
it's  my  opinion  that  we  had  better  not  men- 
tion it  again,  for  really  you  know,  darling,  it 
isn't  a  thing  that  one  can  very  well  say  much 
about.  Besides,  I'm  so  bursting  with  the 
wonderful  discovery  I've  made.  And  oh,  what 
in  the  wide  world  will  dear  Kane  say  and 
think?  and  oh,  Gwynnie  darling,  how  I  do  wish 
he  had  stayed  and  seen  her  !  For  she's  here, 
you  know ;  I  found  her  and  brought  her  here, 
and  she's  here  now,  so  she  is,  the  jool  of 
life  I " 

"  You  mean  Inez  ?  "  asked  Gwyn,  with  a 
sigh. 

"  Inez  ?  Of  course  AVho  else  ?  And 
what  do  you  think  ?  Oh,  you  would  never 
guess  —  never,  never!  Oh,  it's  the  very 
strangest  thing  and  the  gladdest  thing,  so  it 
is!" 

"  Whnt  is  it  ?  "  asked  Gwyn,  who  won- 
dered what  that  could  be  which  was  able  to 
excite  Bessie  at  such  a  moment  as  tliis.  For 
his  own  part,  all  the  rest  of  the  world  seemed 
then  a  matter  of  indiiference. 

"You'd  never  guess,  so  you  wouldn't — 
never — and  so  I'll  have  to  tell  you,"  said 
Bessie,  "though  I  don't  tliink  you  will  really 
believe  it,  at  all  at  all,  that  is,  not  just  at 
first,  you  know,  for  it's  so  awfully  funny, 
Gwynnie  dear.  It's  this  :  You  know  my  dar- 
ling Inez,  how  I  love  her,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  and  we've  always  been  just  like  sisters, 
too,  you  know — oh,  she's  such  a  darling ! — 
well,  do  you  know,  Gwynnie  dear,  I've  just 
found  out  that  she  really  is  my  very  own  sis- 
ter." 

"  Your  what  ?  Your  sister  ?  Wliy,  what 
do  you  mean  ';  Ilow  can  that  be  ?  "  asked 
G  vytij  in  great  amazement,  and  thoroughly 
roused  now  by  this  startling  intelligence. 

"Sure  I  mean  what  I  say;  things  have 
(■'ome  to  light  tliat  I  never  knew  before,  and 
there  isn't  the  least  doubt  in  life  but  it's  all 
gospel  truth,  so  it  is ;  and  only  tliink  of  my 
own  darling  Inez  being  my  own  sister ! " 

"  What  1  is  her  name  Inez  Monhiu,,'  ?  " 
asked  Gwyn,  in  amazement. 

"Sure  and  it  is,  and  I  got  things  allmi.^ed 
up  in  my  mind,  so  I  did.  I  was  told  my 
name  was  Inez,  though  they  always  called 
me  Bessie,  but  it's  my  other  sister  that 
owned  the  name,  after  all ;  and  don't  you 
think  it's  all  awfully  funny,  Gwynnie  dar- 
ling ?  " 

"  Whv,  I  don't  know  what  to  think,  for  I 


III 


il'i 


w 


188 


AX   Ol'KX   QUESTION. 


i'  ;] 


I 


don't  uiidci^taiid  it  at  all ;  but  I'm  very  glad, 
indeed,  dadhig  Uessie,  if  you  are.  I  care  for 
uo  one  but  you." 

"  And  sure  and  I  don't  care  much  for  any- 
body but  you,  Gwynnie,  if  it  comes  to  that," 
said  Bessie,  giving  Lira  a  iook  of  touching 
fondness,  and  trustful,  innocent  aft'oction,  that 
sent  a  thrill  of  rapture  through  Gwyn's  heart. 
The  consequences  that  might  ensue  from  her 
thus  finding  another  sister  did  not  occur  to 
him.  lie  did  not  think  of  asking  whether 
this  Bister  was  older  or  younger.  The  heri- 
tage of  Mordaunt  Manor  vas  at  that  moment 
of  no  interest  to  him.  The  presence  of  Bes- 
sie was  enough,  and  the  certainty  that  she 
loved  him  still  prevented  hira  from  feeling 
any  uneasiness  about  the  future.  It  was 
from  her,  or  rather  for  her  sake,  that  the 
temptatio'i  hud  come  to  him  on  the  top  of 
the  hill;  md  now,  for  her  sake,  he  had  be- 
come for  tlic  time  indifferent  to  wealth,  to 
rank,  to  *io!o,  to  every  tlii::^',  except  the  love 
that  he  felt  for  hor. 

Bessie  went  on  to  tell  him  all  that  she 
knew  about  it — her  narrative  comprising  that 
which  Kevin  Magrath  had  told  her  and  Inez 
while  they  were  together — but  of  course  not 
touching  upon  those  disclosures  which  he  had 
made  to  Inez  alone. 

"So  you  sec,  Gwynnie  dearest,"  said  she, 
as  she  conelude<l,  "  Jlordaunt  Jfanor  isn't 
mine  now,  at  all  at  all,  so  it  isn't,  no  more 
llinii  Ruthvcn  Towers  ib  yours,  not  a  bit;  and 
tlie  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  Gwynnie,  that 
you  and  I  are  two  beggars,  and  don't  you  call 
that  awfully  funny,  now  f  " 

Gwyn  looked  at  hor  with  moist  cycf,  and, 
drawing  her  closer  to  his  heart,  he  kissed  her 
fair  brow. 

"  Darling  !  "  said  he,  fervently,  "  I  never 
valued  your  love  so  nnicli  before,  and  it  is  so 
precious  to  me  that,  if  I  lost  all  the  rest  that 
I  have  in  the  world,  I  should  not  care.  Let 
Ruthven  Tower,s  go.  Let  Slordaunt  Jfanor 
go.  1*  will  be  strange  if  I  caimot  take  care 
of  )ou  still.  As  long  as  I  iiave  you  I  am  c.)n- 
teuf." 

"And  0  Gwynnie,"  continued  Bessie, 
"  wasn't  it  the  wonderful  thing  that  I  said — 
you  remember,  of  course — it  was,  maybe  my 
sister  might  be  alive  and  come  forward.  1 
meant  my  sister  Clara,  for  I  thongl.'i  I  y,h:\ 
Inez,  but  Clara,  poor  darling.  !;  d'.'ai),  glory 
be  with  her,  and  so  it's  not  Clarr.,  '.i  it  I;<f/ 
that  has  appeared  ;  and  do  you  know,  Gh  v.; 


"And  I  thou; 
Bessie,  "  tl.at  '  ou' 
peihaps,  af [•  ;•  -  , ; 
really  dead,  for  >]<. 


nie  dear,  the  more  I  think  of  all  this  the  fun- 
nier it  seems — now,  doesn't  it  ?  And  then, 
again,  it  does  seem  so  awfully  fu.iny,  you 
know,  for  you  to  give  up  your  title,  and  for 
me  to  give  up  mine,  and  for  both  of  ut,  to  be 
plain  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  and  that,  too,  afte;-  all 
our  splendor,  and  all  the  congratulations  of 
the  county,  and  to  have  to  work  for  our  liv- 
ing. Really,  Gwynnie  dear,  it  makes  me 
laugh." 

Gwyn  emiied,  out  of  pure  delight,  to  see 
Bessie  taking  this  approach  of  adversity  so 
pleasantly. 

^-)  I  did,"  continued 
■ig  Clara  v.as  alive, 
-J,  it  seems  she  is 
■1  know,  Gwynnie  dear, 
poor,  dear  papa,  bci'ore  he  came  to  Jlordaunt 
Manor,  visited  her  grave  here,  and  then  he 
and  dear  grandpa  JIagrath — who  really  isn't 
my  grandpa,  you  kn.^vv,  after  all,  but  I  must 
call  him  so  still — well,  those  two  had  the  re- 
mains of  poor,  dear  Ch'ra  exhumed  and  taken 
to  Rome,  whore  they  buried  her  again  by  the 
side  of  poor,  dear  mamma,  who,  it  seems,  is 
buried  there  also.  And  oh,  it's  very  sad,  so 
it  is,  to  find  out,  after  all,  that  really  she  is 
so  very,  very  dead,  you  know  ! 

"And  you  know,  Gwynnie  dear,"  con- 
tinued Bessie,  a."ter  a  few  momen..i  f^T mourn- 
ful thought,  "  dci  r  Inez  is  going  t-j  Lome,  for 
she  remembers  dear  Clan,  ar  ..  li'  'og  lost 
her  in  life,  die  longs  to  go  r>-  e)ia  v..'  's,  and 
pray  over  her  grave.  For  ?a.'  ;,-art  i;ja  says 
that  poor,  dear  Clara  was  i  t  v  "'  (  c ■  ted,  at 
all  at  all,  and  there  was  sadnesj  -J  srnow 
about  her  death. 

"And  then,  again,"  resui/icd  Lossie, 
"  there's  another  reason  why  dc  r  Inez  is 
willing  to  go,  for  there's  a  p>\.at  friend  of 
hers — and  of  dear  Kane's.  ♦,/o,  and  of  mine, 
too,  for  that  matter— Lr.  Blako,  the  one  that 
attended  poor,  dear  Guardy  Wyverne ;  well, 
dear  grandpa  sayd  that  Dr.  Blakc  is  in 
Rome;  that  'he's  settled  dovni'  there,  and 
is  likely  to  remain;  aii-i  .  'Vink  dear  Inez  is 
rather  in  hopes  of  hi''  !sni  suuiewhcrc! 
about  Rome,  and  so  yo>i  -  •'  v.ynnij  dear, 
slie  has  two  very  strong  i.  ,<  ons  for  going, 
and  clear  grandi)a  is  going  to  take  her." 

•  I)(>('S  she  know  of  her  father's  death  '  " 
a  !vi.'d  Givyn. 

•'  ire  and  siic  nnist.  Grandpa  had  a 
long  talk  alone  with  her,  and  told  lier  all 
about  every  tiling,  ami  things,  too,  that  he 


HI 


THE  TEXDERXESS  OF  BESSIE. 


1S9 


Itlic  I'un- 
Id  then, 
Jny,  you 

laud  for 
Lsj  to  be 
Jifte;  nil 
lions  of 
J  our  liv- 
Ikcs  nie 


didn't  want  me  to  hear,  about  my  infancy,  I 
believe,  for  fear  it  would  make  me  too  sad  ; 
and,  after  it  all  was  over,  she  looked  at  me — 
0  Gwynnie  !  such  a  look — so  awfully  sad  and 
sorrowful  1  And  oh,  but  I  had  the  sore  heart 
for  her,  poor  darling  !  and  I  didn't  dare  to  say 
a  word,  for  sure  it  seemed  to  me  just  as 
though  I'd  been  serving  her  as  Jacob  did 
Esau — just  for  all  the  wide  world  as  though  I 
had  taken  her  name  and  place — for  poor,  dar- 
ling papa  took  mo  for  Inez,  and  died  blessing 
rae  as  Inez.  But  really,  Gwynnie  darling,  it 
wasn't  my  fault,  so  it  wasn't — for  didn't  I 
think  I  was  Inez  ?  Sure  I  did.  Still,  that 
doesn't  change  matters  for  her,  and,  however 
innocent  I  was  about  if,  the  fact  remains — 
and  oh,  but  it  must  be  the  sore  fact  for  her  I 
But,  if  any  one's  to  blame,  it's  poor  Guardy 
AVyverne,  who  went  and  changed  her  name. 
And  oh,  but  it  was  hard  on  her,  so  it  was,  for 
she's  suffered  more  than  her  share  on  accciut 
of  it.  And  I  can't  help  feeling  that  I've  had 
a  share  in  the  wrong,  and  that  I've  been 
happy  at  her  expense.  And  I'm  anxious  to 
make  some  amends,  and  I  won't  be  able  to  be 
happy,  at  all  at  all,  unless  I  do  something  to 
console  her.  I'm  her  chief  consolation  now 
— and  oh,  but  it's  the  blessed  thing  that  I 
liurried  on  as  I  did  1 " 

Bessie  stopped,  and  looked  with  an  expres- 
sion of  anxious  inquiry  at  her  husband. 

"  Gwynnie  dearest,"  said  she,  in  her  most 
winning  tone. 

"Well,  darling?" 

"  I'm  going  to  toll  yousomot  .ing  now  that 
you  won't  like ;  but  it  must  be  done,  and  I 
won't  keep  you  in  suspense  about  it.  I  have 
told  Inez  that  I  would  devote  myself  to  her 
for  a  short  time,  and  that  we  would  be  just 
as  we  used  to  be.  She  objected,  poor  darling, 
and  said  that  she  would  not  like  to  take  me 
from  you  ;  but  I  laughed,  and  said  that  you 
would  not  object  if  I  wanted  it,  and  that  you 
would  bo  willing  to  do  any  little  thing  you 
could  if  it  would  bo  for  her  good.  And  so 
you  will,  Gwynnie  dear,  for  hero  is  my  dear 
sister  Inez,  the  one  that  I've  wronged  so 
much  without  knowing  it,  and  she's  suffered 
awfully,  and  she  needs  loving  care  and  atten- 
tion, and  I  am  the  only  living  being  that  can 
give  her  this.  So  please,  Gwynnie  dear,  dor't 
bo  after  looking  so  dismal,  for  there  arc  du- 
ties that  1  have  in  the  world  besides  those  I 
owe  to  yoti,  and  I'm  not  the  one  to  stand  by 
and  SCO  my  darling  Inet — my  new-found  sis- 


ter— after  suffering  so  much,  loft  alone  with, 
out  any  congenial  friends.  Of  course,  dear 
grandpa  would  do  every  thing  in  the  wide 
world  for  her,  so  he  would  ;  but  ho  is  not 
what  she  wants,  at  all  at  all,  nor  is  Jlrs.  Lu- 
grin.  She  wants  an  old  friend — an  ecp'ial — 
her  sister — myself — and  it's  myself  that's  the 
only  one  she  can  get  comfort  from.  And  so^ 
Gwynnie,  as  I  know  you  have  a  tender  heart, 
and  are  not  selfish,  why,  sure  you'll  quietly 
let  me  go  for  a  while,  and  devote  myself  to 
my  sweet  sister." 

This  proposal  threw  great  gloom  over 
Gwyn.  Yet  the  recolleeiion  of  his  own  deep 
olfenco,  and  the  total  and  complete  reconcilia- 
tion with  Bessie,  and  her  sweet  and  graceful 
forgiveness,  all  made  it  impossible  for  him  to 
oppose  her  wishes,  especially  when  expressed 
for  such  a  purpose. 

"  And  must  I  go  homo?"  he  asked,  dis- 
mally. 

■'Go  home,  is  it?  Not  you.  You  must 
come  to  Home.  Go  home  I  Why,  what  an 
awful  idea,  Gwynnie  darling!  Oh,  no.  You 
must  come  on  to  Rome,  and  perhaps  dear 
Kane  may  come,  too.  Bring  him;  you'll 
both  be  the  happier  for  it,  and  we'll  see  one 
another  all  the  time.  When  I  said  I  was  go- 
ing to  devote  myself  to  Inez,  I  didn't  moan 
that  I  was  going  away  from  you  altogether. 
I  want  to  have  you  near,  Gwynnie  darling, 
and  sec  you  every  day." 

Gwyn  gave  a  sigh  of  relief 

"  I'll  pretend  that  I'm  a  lover  again,  Bes- 
sie darling,"  said  ho,  sadly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  do — do,  dear,  darling  Gwynnie; 
it  will  be  so  awfully  nice,  and  funny,  and  all 
that.  And  you  must  bring  Kane  to  Rome 
for  company.  He'll  want,  perhaps,  to  come 
with  the  rest  of  us,  and  join  iu  our  prayers 
over  dear  Clara's  grave.  Oh,  how  awfully 
nice !  Only  think — that  is,  I  don't  exactly 
mean  nice — but  you  understand,  dear.  I 
want  to  ask  himself,  if  I  only  can.  But  he'll 
1)0  here  this  evening ;  ho  must  coino  to  seo 
dear  Inez;  she  talks  so  much  about  him.  Be- 
sides, he'il  bo  glad  to  know  that  every  thing 
is  explained." 


m 


190 


AN  OPEX  QUESTION. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 


BEFOnE  niS  JUDGE. 


y     :i 


■ '  : 

I  ' 


I 


On  returning  to  Kane's  apartments,  Gwyn 
told  bim  all  tbat  he  had  heard  from  Bessie, 
to  which  Kane  listened  in  the  utmost  amaze- 
ment. Many  circumstances  were  explained, 
yet  many  more  were  inexplicable  to  him  as 
yet.  Above  all,  he  could  not  understand  how 
if  was,  if  Bernal  Mordaunt  had  died  at  Jlor- 

int  Manor,  tbat  he  could  have  written  from 
.'  death-bed  in  Paris.  These  two  things 
.  ,'3med  irreconcilable,  nor  could  Gwyn  give 
him  any  satisfaction.  Soon,  however,  there 
were  other  things  mentioned  which  drew  all 
Kane's  thoughts  away  from  the  alfairs  of  Inez. 
This  was  the  statement  tbat  the  remains  of 
Clara  had  been  exhumed,  and  had  been  taken 
to  Eome  for  burial ;  and  also  the  announce- 
ment that  Blake  had  gone  to  Rome,  and  had 
"  settled  down  in  that  place  for  good." 

Both  of  these  facts  were  to  him  of  over- 
whelming importance.  In  bis  friendship  for 
Blake  he  rejoiced  to  learn  tbat  he  was  well, 
though  he  could  not  help  wondering  why  he 
had  remained  so  silent.  But  this  was  of  com- 
parative unimportance  in  view  of  the  astound- 
ing  news  about  the  remains  of  Clara. 

Kane's  feelings  about  his  lost  wife  have 
been  sufficiently  described.  It  was  to  bo  near 
her  loved  remains  that  he  bad  come  to  Paris 
— it  was  for  this  sake  only  tbat  he  lived  here. 
Other  places  would  have  been  preferable  to 
him,  but  the  presence  here  of  Clara's  remains 
gave  to  Paris  an  interest  that  no  other  place 
could  have.  It  had  been  his  habit  to  pray  at 
stated  times  over  her  grave,  and  the  anni- 
versary of  that  awful  day  when  they  were 
separated  was  always  observed  by  him  with 
fasting  and  prayer.  lie  had  not  been  near 
her  grave  since  that  night  of  the  "  apparition  " 
at  r^re-Ia-Chaise;  but  the  anniversary  was 
not  far  distant,  and  ho  would  have  to  go  there, 
no  matter  what  might  bo  his  feelings,  and  ob- 
Bcrvo  the  usual  solemnities. 

Now  ho  learned  to  his  amazement  what 
had  happened.  Tliis  fact  at  once  broke  into 
all  the  even  tenor  of  hi?  life,  and  made  it 
necessary  fur  him  to  make  some  change.  The 
removal  of  those  precious  relics  destroyed  all 
motives  for  remaining  here.  "Where  those 
remains  were,  there  he  must  go.  The  state 
of  his  feelings  was  such  that  life  was  only 
tolerable  near  all  that  was  mortal  of  her  whom 


ho  loved,  and  the  first  thought  that  he  had 
when  Rome  was  mentioned  was  that  he  must 
leave  Paris  and  go  there.  The  information 
that  Kevin  Magrath,  and  Inez,  and  Bessie, 
were  all  going  there  to  "  pray  over  that  grave," 
only  intensified  his  desires  to  do  the  same, 
and  all  other  thoughts  became  indifferent  to 
him. 

What  he  should  do  first  was  now  the 
question.  He  was  anxious  to  see  Kevin  Ma- 
grath. This  man's  character  had  undergone 
a  fresh  revolution  in  his  mind.  AVhen  he 
had  first  seen  him,  he  had  formed  of  him  such 
an  opinion  that  he  seemed  a  sort  of  accusing 
witness,  an  avenger  of  blood,  a  relentless 
Nemesis.  After  hearing  the  story  of  Inez,  he 
had  been  changed  into  a  remorseless  villain, 
a  dark  schemer  and  intriguer.  Now,  how- 
ever, he  appeared  once  more  in  the  former 
ligiit.  Whatever  might  be  the  mystery  that 
remained,  it  seemed  evident  to  Kane,  from 
Bessie's  words,  and  the  acts  of  herself  and 
Inez,  that  the  last  judgment  about  Kevin  Ma- 
grath was  wrong.  It  seemed  now  as  tliough  he 
must  have  been  the  faithful  friend  of  Bernal 
Mordaunt  and  his  children ;  a  just  man ;  a 
tender-hearted  guardian  ;  a  loyal  friend  ;  ono 
who  had  been  the  champion  of  unprotected 
innocence,  and  one,  too,  who  had  felt  merci- 
ful even  to  the  guilty,  whose  form...  guilt  he 
had  resisted  and  denounced. 

Yet  the  prospect  of  meeting  with  this  man 
had  in  it  something  so  terrible  for  Kane  tbat 
he  shrunk  from  it.  For  Kevin  Magrath  once 
more  seemed  to  be  the  avenger  of  the  injured 
Clara.  lie  could  not  help  recalling  his  look, 
his  attitude,  and  his  words,  during  that 
memorable  evening  in  London — those  awful 
words,  every  one  of  which  Lad  pierced  like  a 
stab  to  his  heart.  To  go  now  to  this  man 
would  be  to  expose  himself  to  a  repetition  of 
this  painful  scene,  to  receive  fresh  wounds, 
and  encounter  fresh  sufferings.  Yet  to  do  so 
was  necessary.  This  man  had  assisted  in  Iho 
removal  of  Clara.  lie  nimsclf  must  havo 
touched  the  casket  that  held  tbat  precious 
treasure,  and  from  that  touch  the  man  him- 
self seemed  now  to  Kane's  imagination  to 
hevo  acquired  a  kind  of  awful  sanctity.  To 
meet  him  would  bo  more  painful  than  ever, 
but  it  was  necessary  in  order  to  obtain  accu- 
rate information  about  the  place  in  which  they 
had  laid  tho  remains  of  his  lost  darling. 

Kane  therefore  yielded  to  this  necessity, 
and  that  evening  called  at  tho  hotel  along 


BEFORE   niS  JUDGE. 


191 


(t  he  bnd 

:  he  must 
formation 
Bessie, 
Jit  grave," 
Ihe  same, 
Ifferent  to 


■with  Gwyn.  Inez  and  Bessie  were  both  in 
the  room  waiting  for  them.  Kane  greeted 
Inez  with  affectionate  cordiality,  and  congrat- 
ulated her  most  sincerely  upon  the  favorable 
change  in  her  affairs.  But  his  thoughts  were 
80  occupied  with  the  chief  purpose  of  this 
visit  that  he  did  not  question  her  very  partic- 
ularly, and  the  conversation  took  a  general 
turn,  which  was  at  length  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  Kevin  Magrath. 

lie  looked  around  with  a  beaming  smile, 
which  was  at  once  benevolent  and  paternal. 
Bessie  introduced  him  to  Gwyn.  He  shook 
hands  with  Lira  cordially  with  some  warm 
words  of  welcome,  and  then,  catching  sight 
of  Kane,  advanced  toward  him. 

"  Mr.  Ilcllvilie — ah — Ilellmuth,  sure  it's 
glad  I  am  to  see  ye  here !  It's  sorry  I  was 
the  last  time  I  saw  ye  that  ye  had  to  make 
yer  ajicus  before  the  evening  had  begun.  I 
hope  we  may  be  able  to-night  to  pass  the  time 
in  a  more  shuitable  manner." 

Saying  this,  ho  shook  hands  with  Kane 
very  warmly,  and  went  on  to  chat  with  Gwyn, 
and  Bessie,  and  Inez,  one  by  one,  in  the  easi- 
est and  pleasantest  way  in  the  world. 

"There's  no  one  going  that  knows  Home 
better  than  I  do,"  said  he,  in  reply  to  some 
remark  of  Bessie's  about  their  journey. 
"Don't  I  know  it?  Haven't  I  lived  there, 
off  and  on,  for  years  V  Meself  has.  There 
isn't  a  cyardinal  of  the  holy  conclave  that  I 
don't  know,  in  and  out.  And  they're  a  fine 
body  of  min  intirely,  so  they  are,  but  it's  a 
pity  they're  so  many  of  thim  Italians.  In  a 
constichutional  kingdom,  as  Italy  now  is, 
there's  a  wonderful  chance  for  the  holy  father, 
if  he  only  knowed  how  to  avail  himself  of  it. 
If  they  only  wint  to  work  the  way  they  do  in 
Ireland  and  America,  thoy  could  howld  the 
distinies  of  Italy  and  of  the  wurruld  in  the 
hollows  of  their  liands.  But  they  don't  com- 
prihind,  and  they  won't,  till  another  ginera- 
tion  comes  along  that  grows  into  the  new  or- 
der of  things.  Ye  see,  what  I  always  tell 
them  is  this:  Ye  must  conforrum  more  to  the 
spirit  of  the  age.  It's  a  liberal  age  and  a  con- 
stichutional age.  Ye  must  be  liberal  aiid  con- 
stichutional. It's  no  use  excommunicating 
kings  and  imperora,  and  prime  mmistcrs  and 
siuators.  Look  at  the  way  they  do  in  Amer- 
ica. They  take  possession  of  the  ballot-bos, 
and  thus  become  shupreme.  Go,  says  I,  into 
politics,  bald-headed  1  Direct  the  votes  of  the 
people.     They're  all  yours.     Out  of  twinty 


millions  of  Italians  Low  many  d'ye  think  yo 
have  on  yer  own  side?  There's  tin  million  fa- 
males.  Out  of  the  other  tin  million  min  five 
million  are  boys  who  are  all  under  the  con- 
trol of  their  mothers.  Out  of  the  remaining 
five  million  adult  min  four  million  are  adult 
pisints,  altogether  under  the  control  of  the 
priesthood,  and  riddy  to  vote  as  they  suggist. 
It  is  a  great  allowance  to  suppose  a  single 
million  as  belonging  to  the  Antipapal  or  Lib- 
eral party.  If  ye  wint  among  these,  ye'd  find 
numerous  ways  of  gaining  control  of  three- 
quarters  of  thim.  lie  own  opinion  is  that, 
out  of  the  twinty  millions  of  Italians,  there's 
only  two  hundred  thousand  min  who  can  bo 
called  Liberals.  .Ajid  what  could  they  do  ? 
Get  universal  suffrage  and  the  ballot-box,  and 
ye'd  swamp  thim,  so  ye  would.  Ye  howld  the 
distinies  of  the  country  in  yer  power,  and  all 
ye've  got  to  do  is,  like  children  of  Israel  at 
the  Eed  Sea,  whin  Moses  came  to  thim  as  I 
do  to  you  and  said,  as  I  now  say,  '  Go  for- 
ward ; '  or,  like  the  same,  when  Joshua  the 
son  of  Xun  said  to  them,  '  Behold  the  prom- 
ised land  !    Go  ye  up  and  possess  it ! '  " 

Prom  such  high  themes  as  these  the  con- 
versation gradually  faded  away — Gwyn  ab- 
sorbing Bessie,  and  Kevin  Magrath  alternately 
addressing  Inez  and  Kane.  But  Inez  evi- 
dently took  no  interest  in  what  she  consid- 
ered politics,  and  thus  Kane  was  left  as  the 
only  collocutor  or  listener  or  whatever  else  he 
may  have  been.  Collocutor  ho  certainly  was 
not,  however,  for  he  simply  listened,  not  at- 
tending particularly  to  Kevin  Magrath's  re- 
marks, but  rather  thinking  about  the  best 
way  of  seeing  him  alone,  so  as  to  ask  him 
about  those  things  which  now  were  upper- 
most in  his  mind.  At  length  Inez  left  the 
room.  Gwyn  and  Bessie  were  taken  up  with 
each  other,  and  then  it  was  that  Kane  made 
known  his  feelings. 

"  I  should  like  very  much,"  said  ho,  "  to 
ask  you  about  some  things  that  are  of  impor- 
tance to  mo.  Can  I  see  you  alone  for  a  few 
moments?" 

Kevin  Magrath  smiled  graciously. 

"  With  the  greatest  plisure  in  life,"  said 
ho.  "  Come  along  with  me  to  me  own  room, 
and  we'll  make  a  night  of  it." 

With  these  words  ho  rose  and  led  the 
way  along  the  corridor  to  a  room  at  the  end 
of  it.  Entering  this,  Kane  foui.d  himself  in 
a  large  and  elegantly -furnished  apartment, 
opening  into  a  bc^aroom.     On  a  sideboard 


1 

f 

5 

•' 

' 

VJi 


AN"   Ori;\   QIKSTIOX. 


wcro  botllcH,  dceautfr.-=,  and   tubncco-boxcs.  j 
On  tho  tabic  was  a  mcerscliaum-pipe,  a  box 
of  cigars,  and  tbe  latest  Galiynani, 

Kevin  Magrath  lollcd  up  au  eapv-clialr  be- 
side the  table. 

"  Mako  versolf  couifortablc,"  said  lie, 
cliecrily.  "  Yo'll  take  something  warruni, 
won't  ye — and  a  pipe  or  so?  I've  whiskey 
Lere  by  ine,  Scotch  or  Irish — 'Cerium  non 
animum  mutant,'  ye  know ;  '  qui  trans  marc 
currunt;'  and,  for  my  part,  1  carry  a  bottle 
of  Irish  whiskey  with  me  wherever  I  go — and 
Scotch  too,  for  that  matter;  though,  on  the 
whole,  I  object  to  Scotch  whiskey,  for  it  sa- 
vors somewhat  of  Calvinism,  llowandivor, 
)c'll  take  one  or  the  other." 

Kane  mildly  suggested  Irish. 

Kevin  Magrath  smiled. 

"It's  charruraed  I  am  with  yer  taste,  and 
I  take  it  as  a  compliniint  to  me  country,"  and 
he  poured  out  a  wincglassful,  which  he  handed 
to  Kane,  after  which  ho  poured  out  another 
ibr  himself.  "Here,"  said  he,  "lifting  it  to 
his  lips,  "hero  is  a  libation  which  I've  pow- 
ered o\it  in  honor  of  old  Ireland,  let's  drink 
to  the  first  flower  of  the  ear'.h  and  first  gira 
of  the  sea." 

They  both  drank  solemnly. 

"And  now,"  said  Kevin  Jfagrath,  "  hav- 
ing performed  the  first  jiities  of  hospitality, 
I'm  altogether  at  your  service.  But  won't  ye 
take  a  pipe  or  a  cigar?  " 

Kane  declined. 

"Tho  fact  is,"  said  lie,  drawing  a  long 
breath,  "my  name  is  not  llellmutli." 

"  The  divil  it  isn't !  "  said  Kevin  Magrath. 

"Circumstances,"  said  Kane,  "made  it 
necessary  for  me  on  my  former  visit  to  take 
that  name.  At  present  there  is  no  such  ne- 
cessity. I  have  u.ippod  it,  and  have  taken 
my  own  again." 

"'Deed,  thin," said  Kevin  Magrath,  "I  hope 
that  yer  circumstances,  whativer  they  are,  have 
changed  for  the  better." 

Kane  sighed,  and  regarded  the  other 
gloomily  and  fixedly. 

"  .My  name,"  said  he,  is  a  familiar  one  to 
you.  It  is  Kane  Kiithven.  I  am  tho  man 
that  married  Clara  Mordaunt,  and  caused  her 
death.  I  wish  to  talk  to  you  about  her.  I 
wish  also  to  show  you  that,  for  any  evil  which 
I  did  to  her  whom  I  loved,  I  have  atoned  for 
by  life-long  remorse." 

At  the  first  mention  of  this  name  a  siulden 
and  astonishing  change  came  over  Kevin  Ma- 


grath. His  easy,  placid  smile  passed  away, 
a  dark  frown  came  over  his  brows,  he  pushed 
his  chair  back  and  started  to  his  feet,  and  re- 
garded Kane  with  a  black,  scowling  face. 

"  You  !  "  he  cried. 

"  Yes,"  said  Kane. 

Kevin  Magrath  looked  at  him  for  some 
time  with  the  same  expression,  but  gradually 
the  severity  of  his  features  began  to  relax. 

"  I've  prayed,"  said  he,  slowly  "and  I'vo 
longed  for  the  time  to  come  whin  could  sec 
ye  face  to  face ;  and  thin  again  I've  longed 
and  I've  prayed  that  I  might  never  see  yo. 
I've  prayed  to  see  ye  that  I  might  have  ven- 
gincc  for  Clara's  bitter  wrongs,  for  her  be- 
trayal, for  '  er  broken  heart,  for  her  death, 
for  the  di  onor  of  a  noble  name,  and  the 
shame  of  a  lofty  lineage ;  and  I've  prayed  not 
to  see  ye,  so  that  I  might  niver  Iiavc  another 
man's  blood  on  my  hands,  for  I  felt  sure  that, 
if  I  ever  did  see  ye,  that  momint  I'd  have  yer 
heart's-blood.  But,  somehow,"  continued  he, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  "somehow  —  now 
that  I  do  sec  ye  face  to  face — sure,  I  don't 
know  how  it  is  at  all  at  all,  but  the  desire  for 
bloody  vingince  has  gone  out  of  me;  and  ye 
seem  to  have  the  face  of  a  man  that's  paid 
the  full  pinalty  already  of  any  wrong  ye've  iver 
done,  so  ye  do.  And  whither  it  is  this  that's 
the  matther,  or  whither  it  is  that  I  can't  rise 
against  the  man  that's  drunk  with  me — but 
sure  to  glory  I'm  changed — and  so  I  say  to 
you,  Kane  Ruthven,  in  the  name  Qf  God, 
what  is  it  that  ye  seek  me  for,  and  have  ye 
any  thing  to  say  for  ycrself  in  regyard  to  yer 
dealings  with  the  young  gyerrul  that  ye — de- 
stroyed V  " 

Kevin  Magrath's  manner  was  most  im- 
pressive. It  was  that  of  a  lofty,  rigid,  im- 
partial judge,  who  will  exact  strict  justice,  yet 
is  not  altogether  disinclined  to  mercy.  Kane 
sustained  his  gaze  with  tranquillity,  and  looked 
at  him  with  a  solemn,  sombre  brow.  AVheu 
he  had  finished,  he  said: 

"You  arc  mistaken  about  me  in  many 
ways,  and,  when  you  hear  what  I  have  to 
say,  you  will  have  a  less  harsh  opinion  of  me 
than  the  one  you  expressed  in  London." 

"  Go  on,  then ;  let  me  hear  what  you  have 
to  say,  for  it's  mesolf  that  would  be  the  proud 
man  if  ye  could  clear  ycrself  of  any  of  the 
guilt  that's  seemed  to  be  attached  to  ye." 

Kane  now  proceeded  to  tell  his  whole 
story.  lie  told  it  frankly  and  fully,  heaping 
blame   upon   himself    lavirhly,   yet  clearing 


r-' 


l!i;i'()l!H   Ills  JL'DGK. 


193 


liiiiisc'.t'  of  all  O.ui.'V  worse  cliargi;s  wiiicli  Ma- 
gi'atli  liail  uttered  against  liiiu. 

After  it  was  over,  Magrath  remained  imis- 
iiig  for  a  long  time. 

"  Siiro,"  said  lie,  at  last,  "  there  was  vil- 
lany,  though '  not  with  you.  Your  brother 
was  hard,  but  it  was  my  poor  frind  IJennigar 
Wyverne  that  was  the  areh-traitor  and  rogue. 
]iut  how  in  tlie  worruld  did  it  happen  that 
Clara  did  not  know  herself  that  she  was  the 
daughter  of  Bernal  Mordauut,  and  heiress  of 
Mordaunt  Manor  ?  " 

"  I  can't  account  for  it  at  all." 

"  I've  heard  it  stated  on  iminiut  authority," 
paid  Jlagrath,  "  that  a  boy  who  leaves  his 
liomc,  or  is  taken  from  his  home,  at  the  age  of 
tin,  and  is  thrown  into  a  foreign  land  among 
strangers,  will  in  five  years  forget  his  own 
name,  his  father's  name,  and  his  native  lan- 
guage. I  nivir  believed  it  before,  but  now 
this  looks  like  it.  Clara  lost  her  home  and 
her  father  at  tin  ;  she  had  not  lived  regularly 
at  Mordaunt  Manor  either,  and  was  sent  into 
Kranee  ;  and  thus  it  has  ha])pcneil  tliut  she 
forgot  in  a  few  years  the  most  important 
tilings." 

''  It  mu-t  h  ive  been  so,"  said  Kane.  "  She 
knew  her  name,  but  had  no  roc;illection  of 
Mordaunt  Manor — at  le:ist  slie  said  notliing 
about  it — and  she  certainly  had  no  idea  that 
she  was  an  lieiress." 

Another  long  silence  followed. 

"  Kane  Ruthven,"  said  Maurath,  at  la.st — 
"or  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  Sir  Kane — what 
you  have  said  clears  you  com))letely  and  ut- 
terly from  the  suspicions  which  I  had  forrumcd 
about  you.  You  have  not  been  guilty,  as  I 
MOW  sec,  of  any  thing  worse  than  careless- 
ness, or  thoughtlessness.  For  that  you  have 
sulVeied  enough.  I  must  say  that  me  con- 
science condimns  shuicide,  and  in  that  act  yo 
were  clearly  wrong;  it  was  unnecessary;  she 
would  have  drifted  home  or  into  my  hands, 
for  I  was  close  upon  her  track  at  that  very 
lime,  llowandiver,  what's  done  can't  bo  un- 
done, and,  as  ye'rc  an  innoeintand  asufl'ering 
nuin,  why — there's  my  hand." 

With  this  he  reached  out  his  hand.  Kane 
took  it,  and  Magrath  siiook  it  heartily. 

"  I  have  understood,"  said  Kane,  anx- 
iously and  hesitatingly,  "  that — that  she — she 
was  removed  from  the  cemetery." 

"  It  was  her  father's  wish,"  said  Magrath, 
"  that  she  should  be  buried  beside  her  mother 
in  Rome." 

13 


"  She  is  now  in  Home,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  with  her  mother ;  ond  the  other 
two  daughters,  Inez  and  jiessic,  are  going  to 
pray  over  the  graves  for  the  repose  of  the 
souls  of  their  mother  and  their  sister." 

"I  should  think  that  they  would  Lave 
been  taken  rather  to  Mordaunt  Manor." 

"It  was  Bcrnal  MorJaunl's  doing,"  said 
Magrath.  "  But  they  are  all  united,  for  Bes- 
sie's filial  piety  lias  accomplished  one  of  the 
last  wishes  of  her  father  ;  and,  while  she  was 
living  at  Kuthven  Towers,  her  father's  remains 
were  c-xlif  iied  and  taken  to  Rome." 

Kane  hardly  heard  these  last  words.  His 
mind  w.is  occupied  exclusively  with  thoughts 
of  Clara.  Magrath's  information  was  con- 
clusive. It  was  wliat  he  had  wished  to  know, 
and  there  was  nothing  more  to  bo  learned. 
About  the  affairs  of  Inez  bethought  no  more. 
Slie  was  safe  now  with  loving  friends;  the 
mysterious  circumstances  about  her  late  im- 
prisonment were  no  doubt  satisfactorily  ex- 
plained, and  he  himself  had  no  further  inter- 
est in  the  matter. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction,  how- 
ever, that  Kane  reflected  on  the  formal  ac- 
quittal w  hicli  Magrath  had  given  him  of  evil 
acts.  For  Magrath  was  now  to  him  a  stern, 
a  just,  and  a  wise  judge,  from  whom  a  dec- 
laration of  this  sort  was  valuable,  iiuleed. 
There  n  as  at  the  conclusion  of  this  interview 
a  deeper  solemnity  than  usual  in  the  manner 
of  each  of  tlieni,  and  Magrath  did  not  press 
him  to  stay,  ora^k  him  again  to  take  a  drink. 

That  night  (Iwyn  bade  Bessie  farewell. 
She  was  to  start  with  Inez  early  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning  for  Rome. 

"  You'll  come  on  soon,  Cwynnie  darling," 
said  she,  tenderly. 

"  Immediately,  of  course,  l^essie  dearest." 

"  And  you'll  bring  dear  Kane  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

Bessie  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"  We're  beggars  now,  so  we  are,  Gwynuio 
dear,  but  I  love  you,  and  we  can  be  as  happy 
in  our  poverty  as  ever  we  were  in  our  wealth, 
so  we  can." 

Gwyn  pressed  her  to  his  heart  and  left. 

As  ho  walked  away,  nis  heart  was  full  of 
bitterness.  Kane  and  Inez  seemed  now  like 
interlopers,  who  had  come  between  him  and 
his  darling,  casting  her  down  from  the  wealth 
and  luxury  with  which  he  had  thought  he  had 
endowed  her.  Kane  again  had  been  the  in- 
nocent cause  of  this  foul  wrong  which  ho  had 


«t^ 


194 


AX   OI'EX  QUESTION. 


■i .  I  ■ 


i:j ; 


i 


;! 


done  his  wil'c,  and  luez  came  forward  as  her 
supplanter  in  ilorduuut  Manor,  and  also  as  in 
Bomo  sort  a  rival  to  himaelf,  since  sbc  had 
drawn  Bessio  away  from  hiui. 

All  these  things  filled  his  heart  with  bit- 
terness, and  with  these  feelings  be  sought 
Knnc's  apartments  that  night. 


CIIArTER  XLYir. 

DB  PROFUNDIS   CLAMAVI. 

For  a  long  time  Blake  lay  senseless,  but 
at  last  struggled  back  into  consciousness. 
V/hen  he  did  so,  the  constraint  of  his  posi- 
tion, the  weakness  of  his  limbs,  and  the  hard 
stone  wliicli  met  the  first  feeble  uiovenicnts 
of  his  arms,  all  tended  to  retard  the  approach 
of  sense,  while  the  deep  darkness  all  around 
added  to  his  bowiklcrment.  By  a  mere  ani- 
mal instinct,  he  drew  himself  up  from  tlic 
place  where  he  had  fallen,  and  turned  his 
eyes  around,  seeking  to  find  some  visible  ob- 
ject in  that  worse  tluiu  midnight  darkne.-^'. 
But  nothing  whatever  was  to  be  seen,  and  not 
one  ray  of  light,  however  faint,  appeared  in 
any  direction.  Confused  aiid  perplexcil,  and 
not  as  yet  able  to  collect  his  thoughts,  or 
comprehend  his  situation,  he  stood  for  a  few 
minutes  thus,  staring  blindly  into  the  gloom  ; 
and  then  liis  linihs,  wliieh  had  not  yet  re- 
covered their  fnll  strength,  gave  Wiiy  unuer 
him,  and  he  sank  down  upon  the  rocky  floor 
of  the  passage-way,  immediately  outside  the 
sepulchre,  through  which  he  had  made  his 
ill-fated  entrance  here. 

Here  his  mind  struggled  to  establish  a 
connection  with  its  former  self,  but  for 
some  time  was  baffled.  Blake  was  aware  of 
his  own  identity,  and  could  recall  much  of 
his  past  life,  particularly  that  which  referred 
to  his  adventures  at  St.  Malo  and  Villeneuve. 
But  every  thing  since  then  was  dull  and  in- 
distinct, nor  could  his  memory  recall  any 
thing  that  had  occurred  since  his  parting  w  ilh 
Inez.  There  was  a  terrible  sense  of  disaster, 
a  desolating  sense  of  some  irreparable  ca- 
lamity, and  somehow  it  Ecemed  to  be  eoii- 
neeted  with  Inez,  but  how  he  could  not  lell. 
Then  there  dawned  i^lowly  upon  his  mind  the 
knowledge  of  the  place  where  he  was.  Tlic 
rocky  floor  and  wall,  the  rocky  cell  which  he 
bad  just  left,  served  to  suggest  this;  yet,  for 
a  time,  he  was  (piite  unable  to  account  for 


his  presence  here.  He  was  in  the  Catacombs, 
imprisoned  here,  without  light,  without  hope 
of  escape,     'Who  had  done  this  thing? 

Gradually  the  remembrances  of  the  past 
returned.  First  came  the  recollection  of 
those  last  words  as  they  sounded,  hollow  and 
terrible,  through  the  piled-up  stones,  "Blake 
Wi/venie,  farewell  forever  J"  Then  the  thought 
of  O'liourke,  his  desertion  and  betrayal ;  of 
the  plot  that  had  been  made  to  entice  him 
here ;  of  the  long  preparation,  and  final  com- 
pletion of  it.  Each  incident  seemed  more 
terrible  than  its  predecessor,  and  at  length 
every  thing  was  recalled,  and  the  whole  hor- 
ror of  his  fate  stood  revealed,  rendered  now 
doubly  so  Ijy  that  horror  of  great  darkness 
which  closed  in  all  around  him. 

lie  was  here,  shut  in  among  the  dead — 
himself  as  good  as  dead.  lie  was  buried 
here — in  the  Catacombs  !  The  existence  that 
yet  remained  was  but  a  mockery,  a  life  in 
death,  a  prolongation  of  woo,  a  lingering  out  of 
his  capacity  for  suffering,  and  better  would  it 
be  to  destroy  himself  than  to  wait  for  the  slow 
and  agonizing  approaches  of  that  death  which 
was  incvilal)lo.  With  a  shudder  he  recalled 
the  story  of  Aloysius,  and  the  dread  fate  of 
the  lost  Onofrio — a  fate  which,  by  a  terrible 
coincidence,  was  now  to  find  a  counterpart 
in  his  own.  Between  him  and  the  world 
there  lay  an  impassable  barrier ;  he  was  buried 
alive,  and  the  stones  at  the  door  of  his  sep- 
ulchre could  be  moved  away  by  no  power  of 
his. 

Suddenly  there  came  to  his  ears  a  rush- 
ing   sound,    the    patter    of   footsteps.      He 
started  up  to  his  feet  in  horror,  and,  for  a 
moment,    though   ho  had   thus   iiu-   been    a 
stranger  to  superstitious  feelings  of  any  kind, 
there  came  to  his  mind  a  terrible  thought,  the 
thought  of  Onofrio,  of  disembodied  spirits, 
I  and  of  all  t!  ose  otlier  horrors  which  beset 
i  even  tiie  boldest  in  such  a  siti:>\tion.     But 
the  pattering  sound  came  nearer,  and  some- 
thing bru.'^hed  against  his  feet,  and  his  hasty, 
,  superstitious  fancy  was  displaced  by  the  dis- 
:  covery  of  the  truth.     Tiiat  truth  was  hardly 
,  less  formidable,  however,  than  the  fancy  had 
j  been,  for  he  now  knew  that  this  was  an  army 
I  of  rats,  and  he  knew,  too,  that  in  such  a  place 
I  these  animals  are  bold   and   ravenous.      He 
feared,  too,  tliat  tlicy  had  scented  liim  from 
afar,  and  had  come  to  him    to  begin    their 
abominable  work. 

A  moment  before  he  had  not  thought  it 


tncombf, 
lout  Lopo 

? 

the  past 
jction  of 
oUow  and 
''Blake 
10  tUougl.u 
rayal ;  of 
nticc  bim 
final  com- 
ncd  more 
at  length 

hole  hor- 
Jercd  now 

darkness 

the  dead — 
ivas  buried 
ifitence  that 
y,  a  life  in 
;ering  out  of 
tor  would  it 
for  the  slow 
death  which 
ho  rcealled 
read  fate  of 
yy  a  terrible 
counterpart 
1  the  world 
ic  was  buried 
r  of  his  Bep- 
no  power  of 

cars  a  rush- 
jtstcpsi.  Ho 
)r,  and,  for  a 

far  been  a 
I  of  any  kind, 
!  thought,  the 
adied  spirits, 

which  beset 
nation,  Hut 
or,  nud  sonic- 
ind  his  hasty, 
id  by  the  dis- 
h  was  hardly 
tlie  fancy  had 

was  an  army 
I  such  a  idace 
I  venous.  Ho 
Led  hiin  from 
3  begin   their 

Kit  thought  it 


DE   PROl-TNDIS  CLAMAYI. 


195 


possible  that  any  thing  coidd  increase  the 
horror  of  his  situation,  but  now  he  recognized 
something  which  added  to  the  bitterness  of 
death.  But  it  did  more.  It  stirred  him  up 
to  activity — to  self- defence.  This  mortal 
cueniy  was  something  against  which  ho  had 
to  fight  at  once,  and  well  was  it  for  him  that 
he  was  roused,  even  in  such  a  way  as  this, 
out  of  his  despair,  and  fureed  to  some  sort  of 
action. 

Xow,  uo  sooner  had  he  started  to  his  feet 
with  the  instinct  of  self-defence,  and  pre- 
pared to  do  battle  against  this  ravenous  en- 
emy, than  all  his  soul  started  up  into  strenu- 
ous vigilant  activity,  all  the  powers  of  his 
mind  regained  tone  and  force,  and  in  an  in- 
stant he  took  the  measure  of  himself  and  his 
assailants,  and  tlie  scene  of  conflict. 

Xow,  for  the  first  time  in  the  midst  of 
this  impenetrable  darkness,  ho  thought  of 
his  lantern.  Hastily  reaching  out  his  arm, 
ho  felt  in  the  cell  behind  him,  and  to  his 
great  joy  found  it  lying  there.  lie  had 
matches  in  his  pocket,  whieli,  being  a  smok- 
er, he  usually  carried  with  him  ;  and  on  this 
occasion  he  could  not  help  feeling  a  fervent 
emotion  of  joy  that  he  had  ever  acquired  that 
habit.  In  a  few  moments  tlie  lantern  was 
ligiited,  and  the  rats,  squeaking  and  shrinking 
back  like  wild  animals  from  the  unaccustomed 
gleam  of  light  in  such  a  i)lacc,  hurried  awav 
in  fear;  and  Blake  heard  their  pattering  foot- 
steps dying  away  in  tlie  distance,  in  the  di- 
rection of  tluit  way  which  U'llourke  had  led 
him,  and  over  which  he  had  returned. 

Tiic  rats  wore  thus  driven  oil' for  'he  pres- 
ent, but  iJlakc  knew  very  well  that  they 
would  retuiii,  especially  if  his  lamp  should  go 
out.  That  i)recious  light  would  have  to  be 
guarded  with  care,  for  upon  this  alone  now 
rested  any  hope,  however  feeble,  which  he 
dared  to  cherish.  There  was  no  time  to  stand 
and  deliberate,  lie  would  iiave  io  make  use 
of  his  lamp  while  it  yet  was  burning,  and  so 
he  hurriedly  set  out  along  the  path  in  the 
opposite  direction  to  where  O'Rourko  had 
taken  him,  with  a  vague  idea  in  his  mind  that 
he  would  reach  the  vaults  of  the  Monastery 
of  San  Antonio,  and  perhaps  be  able  to  cfTeet 
an  opening  through  tlie  walled-up  archw.ay. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  carao  to  a  cross- 
passage.  This  surprised  him,  for  he  did  not 
expect  to  find  any.  lie  kept  straight  on, 
however,  and  walked  thus  until  ho  had  gone 
a  much  greater  distance  than  that  which  lay 


between  the  house  by  which  ho  had  entered 
and  the  street  on  which  the  Monastery  of  San 
Antonio  stood.  Hero,  at  length,  ho  carao  to 
a  chamber,  something  like  the  one  which  ho 
had  visited  with  O'Uourke,  out  of  which  two 
passages  led.     At  this  point  he  paused. 

It  now  becamo  slowly  apparent  ihat  there 
was  no  archway  walled  up,  no  vaults  of  San 
Antonio  contiguous  to  the  Catacombs,  and 
consequently  no  further  hope  for  him  in  this 
direction.  Uo  began  to  believe  now  that 
there  was  probably  no  Monastery  of  .''an  An- 
tonio, but  that  this,  like  the  monk  Aloysius, 
and  the  monk  Ouofrio,  had  all  been  the  creat- 
ures of  O'Rourkc's  imagination.  Again,  ho 
had  to  make  the  discovery  that  the  wholo 
story  of  the  monk's  manuscripts,  down  to  the 
minutest  particular,  had  been  narrated  only 
for  the  purpose  of  enticing  him  here,  and  that 
it  only  agreed  with  facts  so  far  as  it  was  ne- 
cessary that  it  should. 

Once  more,  full  of  the  conviction  that 
what  was  to  bo  done  shoulJ  be  done  quickly, 
Blake  turned  and  hastily  retraced  his  steps, 
thinking  as  he  went  on  about  what  his  best 
course  now  was.  Ilis  first  thought  was  to 
get  the  clew  and  the  ladder,  without  which 
he  was  but  ill  prepared  for  penetrating  in  any 
direction.  With  these  ho  felt  able  to  make 
some  vigorous  explorations  as  long  as  his 
lamp  held  out.  Xow,  as  ho  turned,  he  heard 
in  the  distance  before  him  the  pattering  foot- 
falls of  his  ravenous  pursuers,  and  knew  that 
they  wer  watching  him  all  the  time.  As  ho 
advanced  now,  they  turned  and  fled,  their 
footfalls  dying  out  far  away.  It  seemed  to 
Blake  that  their  haunts  lay  in  that  direction. 
It  se;'nied,  too,  that  they  must  have  some 
communication  with  the  upper  world,  for  in 
these  Catacombs  there  was  nothing  upoa 
which  they  could  live.  A  faint  hope  arose, 
therefore,  that  if  ho  should  continue  his 
searches  in  that  direction  he  might  possibly 
reach  some  opening. 

As  he  walked  on,  ho  at  length  came  to  the 
place  where  the  ladder  was.  This  he  took 
possession  of.  X'ot  long  after  he  came  to  the 
clew,  which  lay  on  the  ground,  and  this  ho 
proceeded  to  wind  up  for  future  use ;  for  he 
felt  sufficiently  familiar  with  the  way  thus  far 
to  go  without  the  clew  iu  case  of  necessity. 
But  there  came  to  him,  even  while  he  waa 
winding  it  tip,  a  mournful  thought  of  tha 
utter  usclcssness  of  the  clew  to  one  in  his 
circumstances,  who  would  not  wish  to  re- 


196 


AN'   OI'llN'   QI'KSTION'. 


::i 


tm 


trace  liis  sti-ps,  but  rather  to  go  on  till  lie 
Bhould  find  signs  of  some  way  ol'oscapo. 

And  now  his  active  mind  busied  itself,  as 
he  went  on,  in  the  endeavor  to  discover  what 
direction  niight  give  Ihu  best  promise  of  es- 
cape. In  spile  of  his  conviction  that  the 
whole  of  O'lldurke's  story  was  a  fiction,  lie 
Btill  thouf;ht  tliiit  some  portions  of  it  might 
give  liim  iu.'orination  ;  and,  as  his  doseiiiilion 
of  portions  of  the  jiatlis  had  been  true,  so 
also  might  his  assertions  about  the  general 
direction  of  this  path  on  which  he  was  going. 
O'liourkc's  a.«scrtion  liad  been  that  it  ran 
toward  the  Tahitine  Hill,  and  the  whole  point 
of  his  narrative  had  consisted  in  tlie  theory 
that  it  actually  passed  under  the  Palatine, 
and  was  possibly  connected  with  some  of  the 
ancient  vaults.  If  this  were  so,  it  seemed  to 
IJlakc  that  an  opening  might  be  found  through 
these  vaults,  and  that  thus  his  escape  could 
be  made. 

AVith  this  in  his  mind,  Blake  concluded  to 
go  on  as  rapidly  as  possible  along  that  very 
path  by  which  O'llourkc  had  tried  to  lead 
him  to  destruction.  In  a  short  time  he  came 
to  that  place  which  O'llourkc  had  called  the 
Painted  Chamber,  and,  hurrying  on  quickly, 
yet  cautiously,  he  soon  reached  the  opening 
into  the  lower  jiassiige-way.  Donn  this  he 
descended,  and,  as  he  passed  down,  his  eyes 
caught  sight  of  those  holes  in  the  wall  which 
lie  had  so  laborijusly  made.  But  it  was  not 
a  time  to  yield  to  emotions  of  any  sort,  or  to 
feed  his  melancholy  in  any  way. 

lie  now  walked  on  very  cautioiisly,  for  ho 
was  afraid  of  openings  in  the  floor,  and  it  was 
jicccrsary  to  look  well  to  his  path.  lie  ex- 
pected before  long  to  reach  some  larger 
chamber,  which  might  mark  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  I'alatino  Hill.  For  O'Kourke's 
f  tory  had  still  so  strong  a  hold  of  his  mind 
that  he  fully  expected  to  see  that  place  which 
liad  been  called  the  "  Treasure  "liambcr," 
though  of  course  ho  had  not  the  slightest 
expectation  of  finding  any  treasure,  nor  was 
there  any  possibility  that  one  in  his  dcper- 
nte  circumstances  should  feel  the  slightest 
wish  to  find  it. 

As  he  went  on,  he  found  that  the  cro.i^s- 
passages  were  much  less  numerous  than  they 
had  been.  The  path  also  along  which  he 
went  had  b\it  a  slight  deflection  from  a 
straight  course — so  slight,  indeed,  that  it  was 
the  same  to  Blake  as  a  straight  line.  No 
pitfalls  lay  in  his  way,  and  it  seemed  to  him 


j  that  he  had  reaehed  the  lowest  level  on  whieli 
the  Catiiconibs  had  been  made. 

At  length  he  had  walked  on  so  far  that  h« 
bc;j»n  10  hc.-itute.  It  was  time  fur  him  to 
have  reached  that  chamber  tinder  the  I'al.i- 
tiiie,  but  ho  had  found  nothin{^'  in  liis  way 
which,  by  any  stretch  of  fancy,  could  be  called 
a  chamber.  It  had  been  a  narrow  passag'v 
way,  preserving  the  same  dimensions  all 
along,  and  the  characteristic  features  which 
distinguished  all  the  passages  here.  Ho 
seemed  to  bo  wandering  on  intcrnunably, 
and  at  length  the  vague  hope  which  thus  far 
had  cncoiiragcd  him,  or  at  least  led  him  on, 
now  faded  away  altogether,  and  lie  walked 
on  slowly,  merely  because  it  seemed  better 
than  standing  still. 

There  was  no  treasure,  i/ml  he  already 
knew;  but  he  had  now  found  out  that  there 
was  no  chamber  either,  no  connection  with 
any  ancient  vaults,  and  possibly  no  approach 
to  the  neighborhood  of  the  Palatine.  That 
part  of  O'Kourke's  statements  seemed  now 
evidently  thrown  in  to  stimulate  the  fancy  by 
giving  plausible  grounds  to  his  theory  of  the 
treasure  of  the  Ca-sars.  And  where,  now, 
should  he  go?  In  what  direction  should  ho 
turn?  Might  he  not  bo  wandering  farther 
and  farther  away  from  the  path  of  safely  ? 

AVith  such  thoughts  as  these,  amid  which 
not  one  ray  of  hope  presented  itself,  Blake 
wandered  on  more  and  more  slowly.  At 
length  he  reached  a  cross-passage,  and  hove 
he  came  to  a  full  stop.  To  go  on  any  farther 
along  this  passage-way  seemed  useless.  Hero, 
too,  his  hesitation  was  succeeded  by  a  dis- 
covery that  promised  the  very  worst.  Already 
he  had  noticed  that  the  lump  lind  become 
dimmer,  but  ho  had  refused  to  believe  it,  and 
had  tried  to  think  that  it  was  the  hardening 
of  the  wick,  but  now  the  fact  could  no  longer 
be  concealed.  Even  as  he  stood  here  for  a 
few  moments,  that  light — which  to  him  was 
symbolical  of  the  light  of  life — faded  more 
and  more.  AVith  a  despairing  hand  he  opened 
the  lantern,  and  picked  olf  the  top  of  (he  wick 
that  had  caked  over,  feelir.g  all  the  while  the 
utter  hopelessness  of  such  an  act,  for  how 
could  that  prolong  in  any  degree  the  life  of 
the  dying  flame?  It  did  not  prolong  it;  the 
flame  died  down  lower  and  lower. 

I'pon  this,  Blake,  actuated  by  a  sudden 
impulse,  blew  it  out.  He  thought  that  the 
small  (piantily  of  oil  yet  remaining  might 
better  be  preserved  for  some  extreme  uio- 


!  on  wli  it'll 

fur  Unit  li« 

'or  him  to 

tlio  ral!\- 

n  ilia  way 

1  he  oalled 

w  passago 

ii^iioiis    nil 

irc3  whicli 

hero.      Ho 

termiimbly, 

eh  thus  far 

ed  hhn  on, 

lie  walked 

Mned  butter 

he  already 
t  that  there 
leclion  with 
no  npproncii 
atino.     That 
ficcmcd  now 
the  fancy  by 
hcory  of  the 
where,  now, 
in  should  he 
lerinj;  farther 
of  safety  ? 
;,  amid  whieh 
itnelf,  Blake 
slowly.      At 
ige,  and  here 
)n  any  farther 
i?cU'?s.   Hero, 
led  by  a  dis- 
orst.    Already 
I   had  become 
believe  it,  and 
the  hardening 
mid  no  longer 
od  here  for  a 
h  to  liim  was 
. — faded  more 
land  he  opened 
(>p  of  the  wick 
1  the  wliile  the 
I  act,  for  how 
rco  the  life  of 
rolong  it;  the 
L-r. 

1  by  a  sudden 
night  that  the 
maining  might 
c  cxlrcnic  mo- 


DC   I'UOFUXDIS   CLAMAVr. 


197 


nu'iit  of  liin  life,  when  a  ray  of  light  for  but 
a  minute  iniglit  bo  of  far  more  value  tlian 
now.  So  ho  extinguished  it  for  the  present, 
and  preserved  the  minute  or  so  of  light  that 
might  yet  be  given  for  future  need. 

All  wag  now  darkness,  dense,  imponctra- 
hlc,  appalling.  Ilin  long  search  had  resulted 
in  absolutely  nothing,  and  he  began  to  think 
that  it  would  have  been  better  for  him  at  this 
moment  if  he  hail  never  set  out  upon  it.  It 
seemed  now  as  though  he  might  liave  elTcctcd 
Bomething,  had  he  devoted  all  thiii  time  tow- 
ard the  task  of  moving  away  some  portion 
of  the  stony  barrier  which  O'Rourke  had  set 
up.  A  little  reflection,  however,  showed  him 
that  this  would  have  been  impossible.  lie 
recollected  the  immense  masses  that  closed 
up  the  opening,  and  considered  that  behind 
these  were  other  masses.  Xo;  escape  by 
that  way  was  impossible, 

lie  was  at  the  intersection  of  two  paths, 
and  lie  had  no  idea  now  in  what  direction  it 
might  be  best  to  go.  The  darkness  was  tre- 
mendous. The  silence,  also,  that  reigned  all 
around,  was  almost  equally  impressive.  Now, 
as  ho  listened,  that  silence  was  broken  by 
sounds  which  to  him  were  more  terrible  even 
than  the  silence.  They  showed  the  presence 
of  those  ravenous  foes  wiio  had  hold  aloof 
during  his  progress  witli  the  light,  but  who 
now,  while  he  stood  in  darkness,  prepared  to 
attack  him.  It  was  their  hour,  and  they 
Kceniod  to  know  it.  From  afar  came  tlio 
fiound  of  their  advance,  tlio  movement  of 
rapid,  pattering  feet,  the  hurry  of  abominable 
things  past  him,  the  touch  of  horrible  objects 
that  sort  a  shudder  llirough  him.  Since  ho 
had  descended  to  this  lower  leve^,  he  had 
seen  nothing  of  them,  and  in  his  other  cares 
had  forgotten  them.  Now  they  made  their 
presence  felt  and  feared.  They  came  up  from 
the  passage-way  on  his  right.  lie  could  tell 
by  the  sounds  that  they  were  very  numerous ; 
ho  could  fool  that  they  were  very  bold. 

To  stand  still  there  was  impossible ;  to  do 
80  would  simply  be  to  make  an  attack  certain. 
Once  ho  siruck  a  match,  and  the  flash  of  the 
light  revealed  a  sight  so  abhorrent  that  he 
was  glad  to  have  the  darkness  shut  it  out 
again — a  multitude  of  eager,  hungry  eyes, 
from  the  rnvenous  little  monsters  that  shrunk 
back  at  the  sudden  blaze,  but  were  ready  at 
any  moment  to  spring. 

Ho  must  move,  for  movement  was  his  only 
safety.     The  narrowness  of  the  passage  fa- 


vored him,  for  he  could  not  l)o  sumnmded ; 
he  might  possibly  drive  tlnin  before  him.  To 
move  along  this  passage,  by  which  tliey  wero 
advancing  upon  him,  was  necessary.  I'erhaps, 
also,  it  might  be  best.  These  animals  must 
have  some  communication  with  tlie  outer 
world,  and  it  might  possildy  he  found  in  tlii:J 
direction.  This  way,  then,  seemed  to  him  to 
be  by  far  the  most  promising,  or,  rather,  to 
be  the  one  which  had  less  of  despair.  Ho 
could  not  help  wondering  why  the  rats  had 
not  appeared  when  O'Rourke  was  with  him. 
Could  it  have  been  the  greater  light  or  noiso 
that  deterred  them,  or  the  sound  of  human 
voices  ? 

No  sooner  had  Blake  tliought  of  this  than 
ho  resolved  to  break  the  silonco  himself,  and 
to  use  his  own  voice  against  tlietn,  hoping 
that  the  unusual  sound  miglit  alarm  them. 
Already  they  were  leaping  up  his  legs.  Ho 
swung  his  ladder  around,  and  advanced,  push- 
ing it  before  him,  and  wriggling  it  backward 
and  forward.  This  was  partly  to  drive  tlio 
rats  before  him,  and  partly  to  feel  his  patli- 
way,  so  as  to  guard  against  openings.  Thus 
ho  set  forth,  and  resumed  liis  journey  in  the 
dark. 

But  not  in  silence.  Ho  was  to  try  the 
efToct  of  a  human  voice  over  his  assailants. 
But  witli  what  words  should  he  speak,  what 
cry  should  he  give  there,  commensurate  with 
that  appalling  gloom,  that  terrible  silence, 
these  abhorrent  enemies  ?  No  common  \rords, 
no  words  of  evcry-day  speech,  were  possible. 
Where  should  he  find  words  which  might  at 
once  be  a  weapon  against  the  enemy  and  at 
the  same  time  be  concordant  with  the  anguii- li 
of  his  soul?  No  words  of  his  could  do  this. 
He  would  have  to  make  use  of  other  words. 
B.  .  A  ^  mt  his  thoughts  to  words  heard  in 
yonrr  ^/ast — the  solemn  and  sublime  words  of 
the  services  of  his  Church,  heard  in  child- 
hood and  boyhood,  and  remembered,  though 
of  late  neglected  and  despised.  In  his  an- 
guish his  soul  caught  up  a  cry  of  anguisii — 
the  cry  of- despairing  sou's  in  all  ages,  which 
never  sounded  forth  from  a  more  despairing 
sonl,  and  never  amid  more  terrific  surround- 
ings, than  when  Blake,  wandeiing  wildly  on, 
burst  forth  : 

"  Be  pvofundk  clamavi  ad  te,  Domine  ;  Do- 
mine,  cxnudi  voccm  meam. 

"  Fiant  aurrs  tiuB  hitcndentca  in  vocem  dt' 
prccaliani)!  mrrfy 

Nor  was  this  the  first  time  that  this  cry 


I' 


108 


AN'  (H'V.S   (irilSTIO.V. 


1 


p 


hiul  ffonc  fofl-li,  in  Latin,  tn  fJroek,  or  in  He- 
brew,  from  (Icypniiing  Hoiila  in  tho  Catacombs 
of  Rome. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

BACK  TO   I.IFK. 

The  loud  and  prolonijcd  orios  of  Bhxko 
proved  more  efficacious  than  nny  netivo  ef- 
forts. Tliere  seemed  something  in  tho  sound 
of  this  hiimnn  voice  which  strucic  terror ,to 
tho  fierce  assailants  by  whom  ho  was  thrcat- 
eneil ;  and  thoii,i;li  lint  u  sliort  time  before 
tlipy  liad  been  swarming  near  and  loapinp;  up 
against  him,  yet  no  sooner  had  tho  first  words 
of  his  cry  pealed  forth,  than  they  started 
back  as  thon^'h  terrificil,  and  finally  retreated 
far  away.  Tliere  was  a  mournful  satisfaction 
in  having  been  so  far  successful,  but  none  the 
loss  there  remained  in  his  soul  a  feeling  which 
was  now  one  of  nnalterablc  despair.  Though 
for  the  present  his  enemies  han  fled,  yet  he 
did  not  cease  his  cries  utterly,  but  from  time 
to  time  gave  utterance  to  tliera,  so  that  what- 
ever power  they  had  might  be  made  use  of. 

lie  still  walked  on,  pushing  his  ladder 
along  the  floor  before  him,  and  moving  it  as 
he  pushed  it  .«o  as  to  test  the  floor,  and  guard 
against  the  danger  of  openings  into  lower  re- 
gions, rie  still  carried  the  lantern  which 
contained  its  few  drops  of  oil  as  a  last  resort 
when  some  supreme  crisis  should  arrive  and 
light  bo  needed.  Thus  he  went  on,  nor  did 
he  forget  that  faint  encouragement  which  he 
h.id  gathered  before  he  began  tliis  last  march, 
by  the  fact  that  the  rats  had  emerged  from 
this  direction,  and  might  possibly  have  some 
communication  here  with  the  outer  world. 
There  was  now  nothing  better  for  him  than 
to  move  on,  and  he  was  resolved  to  move  on 
till  he  died. 

lie  had  not  gone  far,  after  all.  It  was  not 
long  since  he  had  left  the  place  where  his 
lamp  had  failed  him  ;  ho  had  walked  very 
slowly  and  very  cautiously,  for  in  that  dark- 
ness any  rapid  progress  was  utterly  out  of  the 
question.  ITe  had  to  step  slowly  and  cau- 
tiously, feeling  his  way  most  carefullv,  first 
with  the  lad<icr,  then  with  his  foot,  testing  ilie 
ground  before  him,  first  with  his  toe  before 
daring  to  plant  himself  Crmlv,  and  advancing 
only  a  few  inches  at  a  time.  In  this  way  he 
accomplished  about  twenty  or  tbii  ty  yards, 


when  all  of  a  sudden  he  Viecau.e  aware'  of 
something  wiiirli  was  so  amazing  that  ho 
stood  still  as  thouph  ptiralyzed,  with  his  eyes 
fastened  upon  that  something  before  him. 

That  something  hail  no  very  definable 
shape  or  form,  yet  the  verj-  fact  that  there 
was  something  before  him,  >ipon  which  his 
eyes  could  fi.\  themselves,  was  of  itself  H\\{R- 
cient  to  account  for  the  great  rush  of  con- 
tending emotions  which  now  succeeded  to  his 
despair,  and  overwhelmed  him.  There  was 
liefore  iiim — before  his  eyes — a  visible  some- 
thing ;  dim,  obscure,  yet  appreciable  to  the 
sense  of  vision,  and  it  was  not  far  away.  It 
was  a  dull  anil  barely  perceptible  liglit — so 
dim  that  it  could  scarce  be  called  light,  and 
yet  it  was  light,  light  positive  and  unmistak- 
able— light,  too,  from  no  lamp,  but  from  the- 
great  external  ocean  of  light  which  he  h.ad  .so 
yearned  to  rea  '  and  which  now  seemed  to 
send  forth   t'  n*  stream   to  beckon  him 

onward,  and  'C  him  with  hope  and  joy 

and  life. 

\3  he  stood  there  motionless  for  a  time, 
of  which  he  took  no  account,  that  light  grew 
perceptibly  brighter,  and  every  moment 
brought  a  fresher  and  a  sweeter  assurance  to 
his  soul  that  there  was  no  mistake,  that  his 
wanderings  had  led  him  in  the  right  direc- 
tion ;  that  there  was  some  opening  here 
ihrouph  which  came  the  light  of  the  extemal 
world — the  world  of  life.  At  length  the  as- 
surance grew  80  strong  that  it  broke  down 
his  inaction,  and  he  started  forward  to  reach 
it,  still  moving  cautiously,  and  feeling  his  way 
as  before.  lie  saw  as  he  slowly  advanced  an 
irregidar  aperture  gradually  taking  form,  and 
through  this  penetrated  that  dim  yet  ever-in- 
creasing light  which  had  met  his  eyes.  Every 
minute  that  outline  became  more  clearly  de- 
fined, until  at  length  there  was  more  than  an 
outline.  lie  ,;aw  light  and  shade,  and  tho 
rough  surface  of  stone,  and  a  lighter  space 
beyond  the  opening.  The  intense  darkness 
from  which  he  had  just  emerged  had  given 
to  his  eyes  a  greater  power  than  \isual  of  dis- 
cerning objects  illumined  by  this  faint  light; 
and,  faint  though  it  was,  it  brightened  more 
and  more,  ju^t  as  though  the  external  source 
of  this  light  was  itself  increasing  in  bright- 
ness. To  Blake  it  seemed  as  if  the  sun  was, 
or  might  be,  rising  in  that  outer  world;  and 
the  increasing  light  which  he  saw  might  bo 
the  sign  of  that  gathering  dawn. 

At  length  he  reached  the  place,  aud  Stood 


HACK   TO   LIFE. 


199 


for  a  moment  scarcely  able  to  Ijclitve  in  tlio 
rcnlity  of  liis  gooil  fortune.  It  was  nn  open- 
ing into  (I  Bpaco  beyinul,  nhont  three  feet  long 
mid  two  feet  liigli,  formed  by  the  removal  of 
some  blocks  of  stone.  The  space  beyond  was 
iin  arched  pnssngo-way  constructed  of  enor- 
mous blocks  of  Htone,  about  six  feet  in  tipight, 
and  mueh  wider  than  tho  passages  of  the 
Catacombs.  At  the  bottom  water  was  flow- 
ing along.  Thiu.stinghiH  head  further  through, 
}ie  looked  up  and  down.  In  the  one  direction 
all  was  dark,  but  in  the  other,  at  no  very 
great  distance,  there  appearf  d  the  glad  outer 
world,  over  which  was  brightening  the  morn- 
ing sky,  with  fielih*  and  houses  reddening  un- 
der the  flu.sii  of  dawn. 

Ifo  remained  here  some  time,  drinking  in 
great  waves  of  this  ever-increasing  light  with 
something  like  adoration,  quaflfin  it  like  one 
into.\ieatcil,  hardly  able  to  sati.'^l ;.  Iiimself,  but 
giving  liiniscif  up  idtogethcr  to  the  ecstasy 
of  tho  moment.  And  what  was  this  place, 
he  wondered,  upon  which  he  bad  thus  so 
strar.gely  stumbled  ?  What  was  this  archway 
of  Cyclopean  stones,  hoar  with  age,  ^\itli  its 
floor  filled  with  rubbish,  and  running  water 
passing  on?  A  bro!:on  fragment  of  one 
of  the  massive  rocks  composing  its  sides 
had  been  removed,  and  formed  the  opening 
which  had  given  him  life  once  more.  Doubt- 
li'ss  this  fragment  had  been  removed  in  past 
ages  by  fugitives  who  thus  were  able  to  es- 
cape I  ur^tiit  by  plunging  into  the  Catncombs. 
rcrhaps  those  wlio  removed  the  broken  frag- 
men;  cut  the  passage-way  along  to  those  far- 
tlie,  1 ;  or  perhaps  it  was  tho  work  of  some 
of  th  early  Christians  in  the  ages  of  persecu- 
tion, and  this  may  have  been  one  of  the  se- 
cret and  unsuspected  entrances  to  tho  subter- 
ranean hiding-plaoos.  But  what  was  this  an- 
cient arch  itself?  Xo  place  of  graves — no 
passage-way  among  many  others  like  it,  was 
this.  It  was  unique.  It  stood  alone;  and 
Illake,  though  a  stranger  in  Rome,  had  sufTi- 
cient  knowledge  of  its  most  remarkable  mon- 
uments to  feel  sure  that  this  place  upon  wluch 
he  had  so  strangely  come  was  no  other  than 
the  most  venerable,  the  most  ancient,  and  in 
many  respects  the  most  wonderful,  of  all  the 
works  of  ancient  Rome — the  Cloaca  Maxima. 

But  this  was  not  a  time  for  wonder,  or 
for  curiosity,  or  for  antiquarian  researches. 
Death  lay  behind  him.  Light  and  life  lay 
before  him.  The  horrors  through  which  he 
had  passed  Lad  produced  their  natural  effect 


in  extreme  prostration  of  mind  and  body, 
Some  rest,  some  breathing-space,  was  re- 
{juired  ;  but,  after  that,  if  he  would  save  him- 
self,  if  ho  would  not  perish  within  the  very 
reach  of  safety,  he  must  hurry  on. 

He  crawled  through  and  stood  in  tho 
Cloaca  Maxima.  It  ran  before  him,  leading 
him  to  the  outer  worlii,  giving  him  light  and 
life.  Tho  treasure  of  tho  Ilomaii  emperors, 
which  ho  had  dreamed  of  finding,  had  been 
missed ;  but  ho  had  found  tho  work  of  tho 
Roman  kings,  which  to  him,  in  his  despair, 
was  worth  infinitely  more.  He  stood  in  oozo 
and  slime,  over  which  passed  running  water, 
which  flowed  to  tho  Tiber.  RIako  did  not 
wait,  but  hurried  onward  as  fast  as  ho  could. 
Tho  brightening  scene,  visible  in  the  distance, 
and  growing  more  brilliant  every  moment, 
drew  him  onward,  and  the  terrors  behind 
him  drove'  him  forward  ;  so  that  this  com- 
biiicd  attraction  and  repulsion  gave  him  ad- 
ditional .strength  and  speed.  lie  hurried  on, 
and  still  on,  and  at  length  reached  the  mouth 
of  the  arched  passage.  Here  he  saw  sloping 
banks  on  either  side  ;  and,  clambering  up  the 
bank  on  the  right,  he  stood  for  a  moment  to 
rest  liimsclf. 

In  that  brief  period  of  rest  he  had  no  eyes 
and  no  thoughts  for  the  scene  around,  though 
for  some  that  scene  would  have  posse  ^ed  a 
charm  greater  tlian  any  other  tliat  may  ba 
met  with  in  all  the  world.  He  did  not  notico 
the  Aventint',  the  Capitoline,  the  Janiculura, 
in  tho  distance,  and  the  yellow  Tiber  thai 
flowed  between.  He  was  thinking  only  of 
rest,  of  refuge.  He  longed  for  some  sort  of 
home,  some  place  where  he  might  lie  down 
and  sleep.  He  only  noticed  that  it  was  the 
morning  of  a  new  day,  and  consequently  per- 
ceived that  he  must  have  spent  a  whole  night 
in  the  Catacombs. 

In  that  night  what  horrors  had  he  not 
endured !  As  he  stood  there  panting  for 
breath,  the  recollection  came  over  him  of  all 
that  he  had  passed  through.  He  thought  of 
that  first  moment  when  he  discovered  that  ho 
was  alone  ;  that  the  ladder  and  the  clew  were 
gone  ;  that  he  had  been  betrayed.  He  thought 
of  his  despair,  followed  by  his  cfTbrfs  to  es- 
cape;  his  long  labor  at  the  walls  of  stone; 
his  ascent  to  the  upper  floor  and  pursuit  of 
O'Rourke ;  his  arrival  at  the  opening,  and 
his  discovery  that  it  was  walled  up.  Then 
he  heard  the  rattle  of  stones,  and  tho  voice 
of  his  betrayer,  saying,  "  Blake  Wifi'tme,  fart- 


200 


AS  OPEN   QUESTION. 


:?^ 


well  forever  ! "'  lie  rccallcJ  liis  I'ninlini;  fit, 
his  recovery,  and  his  renewal  of  his  uflbrts  to 
esciipe;  ami  then  followed  that  long  horror, 
that  iii;i,l:t  of  agony,  in  which  lie  had  wan- 
dered along  that  terrific  patliwiiy,  with  its 
appalling  surrounding.-".  In  such  a  situation 
a  man  might  well  have  died  through  utter 
fright,  or  have  sunk  down  to  death  through 
despiiir,  or  have  wandered  aimlessly  till  all 
strength  had  failed  hira.  It  was  to  lilake's 
credit  that,  even  in  'is  despair,  he  had  pre- 
served some  sort  ot  presence  of  mind,  and 
had  not  been  without  a  method  in  his  mo\"c- 
laents.  Yet  the  suffering  had  been  terrible ; 
and  the  anguish  of  soul  that  ho  had  endured 
intensitied  his  bodily  fatigues,  so  that  now,  in 
the  very  moment  of  safety,  he  found  himself 
unable  to  obtain  the  benefits  of  that  safety; 
and  so  extreme  was  his  prostration  and  so 
utter  his  weakness  that  it  was  only  with  dif- 
ficulty that  he  kept  himself  from  sinking 
down  into  scnsclessni'ss  on  the  spot. 

This  would  not  do.  lie  must  obtain  some 
sort  of  a  home,  some  kind  of  ii  lodging-idace, 
where  he  might  rest  and  receive  attention. 
His  strong  and  i  ^solute  nature  still  asserted 
itself  in  L^pite  of  the  weakness  of  the  flesh, 
and  he  dragged  hitnself  onward,  unwilliiig  to 
give  up,  unable  to  surrender  himself  too  easily 
to  the  frailty  of  his  physical  nature.  The  in- 
stinct of  self-preservation  a1.-;o  warned  him  to 
seek  some  shelter,  where  he  niight  be  con- 
cealed from  the  discovery  of  ORourke  ;  for, 
even  in  the  weakness  of  that  hour  und  in  the 
confusion  of  his  mind,  he  had  a  keen  sense 
of  impending  danger,  t'-neuicr  v  ith  a  desire 
to  maintain  the  secret  of  his  escape.  Aui- 
matod  by  this,  lie  went  on,  but  by  what  way.i 
and  innier  what  circumstances  he  was  never 
afterward  able  to  remember. 

Afterward  ho  had  only  a  vague  recollection 
of  strcx's  and  houses.  Few  people  were  to 
be  seen.  Tlic  streets  were  narrow,  the  houses 
lofiy  ni.d  f:loomy.  It  was  the  oliler,  the 
meaner,  and  the  most  densely-peopled  part 
of  the  city.  The  early  morning  prevented 
many  fro.;;  being  abroad.  Ho  watched  the 
windows  of  the  houses  with  close  and  rnger 
""•rutiny,  BO  as  to  discover  some  place  where 
lie  might  rest.  At  length  he  founci  a  place 
where  there  was  a  notice  in  the  window  for 
lodgers,  He  knew  enough  Italian  to  under- 
stand it,  and  entered  by  the  door,  which  hap- 
pened to  be  open.  An  old  woman  was  stand- 
ing there,  and  a  young  girl  was  condng  toward 


her  T'om  an  inner  room.  Rlakc  accosted  her 
in  broken  Italian,  and  had  just  managed  to 
make  her  understand  that  he  wished  to  en- 
gMge  lodgings,  when  his  exhausted  strength 
gave  way  utterly,  and  he  sank,  with  a  groan, 
to  the  floor  at  her  feet. 

It  was  fortunate  forBhike  that  he  had  en- 
countered those  who  possessed  common  feel- 
ings of  humanity,  and  were  not  merely  mer- 
cenary and  calculating  people,  wlir  world  have 
turned  away  from  their  doors  those  who  prom- 
ised to  bring  more  trouble  than  profit.  It  is 
probable  that  this  old  woman  would  have 
been  ijuitc  ready  to  overreach,  or,  in  fact, 
to  cheat  any  stranger  who  came  to  her  in  an 
ordinary  way ;  and  yet  this  same  olil  woman 
waa  overcome  by  the  sinccrest  compassion 
ot  the  sight  of  this  stranger  who  had  fallen 
at  her  feet.  Such  apparent  contradictions 
are  not  rare,  for  in  Ituly  there  is  more  'in- 
dency  among  the  common  people  to  swindle 
strangers  than  there  ia  in  our  own  country  ; 
and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  there  is  \indeniably 
more  kindliness  of  nature,  more  tcndei'iess 
of  sympathy,  more  readiness  of  pity,  more 
willingness  tc  help  the  needy,  than  may  be 
found  among  our  harder  and  sterner  natures. 
So  this  old  woman,  though  a  possible  cheat 
and  swindler,  no  sooner  saw  this  stranger 
lying  prostrate  and  senseless,  than,  without  a 
thought  for  her  own  interests,  and  without 
any  other  feeling  or  motive  than  pure  and 
disinterested  pity  and  warm  human  sympa- 
thy, she  flew  to  h's  assistance.  She  sum- 
moned the  servants,  sl.e  f.etit  for  a  doctor, 
and  in  a  short  time  Blako  was  l.ving  on  a  soft 
bed  in  a  comfortable  room,  watched  oi'er 
most  anxiously  b/  perfect  strangers,  who, 
however,  had  been  made  friends  by  '  '.s  alllie- 
tiou,  and  who  iiow  hung  over  him,  and  tendeii 
him,  nnd  cared  for  him,  as  thouj;h  ho  had 
bec.i  otic  of  their  own,  instead  of  a  stranger 
an  J  a  foreigner. 

Ulakc  was  in  a  high  fever — a  brain-fever 
— accompanied  with  delirium.  A  long  ill- 
ness followed.  He  lay  utterly  unconscious  ; 
his  mind  was  occupied  with  tiie  scenes  t.'irougli 
which  he  hud  passed  of  late ;  and  all  his 
wandering  ihouglits  t'lvned  to  the  teiriblc  ex- 
perience of  that  night  o'.  horror.  During  nil 
this  time  he  was  tended  most  carefully  and 
vigilantly  by  the  kim!  hearted  old  woman  and 
her  daughter,  who  were  filled  with  pity  and 
sympathy.  Not  one  wo'<l  did  they  under* 
Bland  of  all  hi.t  delitior.s  raviiigH,   nor  did 


j^*Pi  1.  jj^jji^ 


-  < 


BACK  TO   LIFE. 


201 


they  know  even  wli:it  limguagc  it  was.  It 
might  1)0  German,  or  Ixussian,  or  Boherniiin, 
or  Tiifkisli,  or  English,  but  this  made  no  dif- 
ference to  them.  Tlicy  maintained  the  part 
of  the  good  Samaritan,  and  denied  tlicmselves 
every  comfort  for  the  sake  of  their  afflicted 
lodger. 

At  length  the  crisis  of  the  disease  was 
successfully  surmounted,  and  Blake  began  to 
recover.  In  course  of  time  he  regained  con- 
sciousness, and  began  to  understand  the  sit- 
uation in  which  he  was.  His  gratitude  to 
these  kind-hearted  people  knew  no  bounds, 
and  his  earnest  expressions  of  his  feelings 
had  to  be  checked  by  his  careful  attendants. 
These  good  people  had  grown  to  regard  him 
as  some  one  who  was  dear  to  them,  and  to 
watch  lor  his  recovery  as  for  something  of 
the  utmost  imi"';)rtance.  But  Bhikc's  prostra- 
tion had  been  extreme,  and  his  recovery  was 
very  slow.  There  was  also  something  on  his 
mind.  This  was  a  desire  to  communicate 
with  his  mother.  But  he  was  unable  to  write 
himself,  and  these  good  people,  though  most 
anxious  to  serve  him  in  every  possilile  way, 
were  quite  unable  to  write  a  letter  in  Engliah 
at  his  dictation.  So  Blake  was  forced  to 
wait. 

At  length  Blake  gained  f '  Tielont  strength 
to  write  what  ho  wished.  It  w;i3  a  feeble 
scrawl,  and  the  handwriting  itself  expressed 
the  whole  of  his  weakness;  but  Blake,  from 
a  motive  of  pioiis  deceit,  tried  to  conceal  tlio 
full  extent  of  his  illness.  lie  wrote  some- 
thing about  bis  journey  to  Kome  on  "busi- 
ness "  (a  vciy  convenient  term),  and  about 
his  contracting  an  illness  from  the  unhealthy 
climate.  He  assured  her,  however,  that  ho 
was  bettor,  urged  hernot  to  bent  all  anxious, 
and  cnlroatcd  her  to  come  on  at  once  and 
join  '  im.  This  letter  ho  directed,  and  tho 
good  people  of  tho  house  mailed  it  for  him, 
after  which  they  waited  with  hardly  less  anx- 
iety than  that  which  was  felt  by  Blake  him- 
self for  the  result. 

That  result  soon  took  place.  In  about 
ten  days  an  elderly  laly  came  to  the  house, 
and  inquired,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  for  Dr. 
Bhikc.  She  was  a  woman  of  medium  stature, 
slender  figure,  hair  plentifully  sprinkled  with 
gray,  and  a  face  of  gentleness  and  refino- 
nicnt  miiiglt'd  with  firmness  and  dignity, 
which  also  bore  evident  marks  of  sorrow. 
She  was  unmistakably  a  lady,  and  she  also 
had  undoubtedly  experienced  her  full  share 


of  those  ills  to  which  all  flesh  is  heir.  Tho 
moment  that  she  appeared,  the  good  people 
of  the  house  recognized  her  as  the  mother  of 
their  lodger ;  and,  while  some  went  to  announce 
her  arrival  so  as  to  spare  Blake  the  excite- 
ment of  a  sudden  surprise,  others  endeavored 
to  soothe  her  evident  anxiety  by  lively  descrip- 
tions of  the  great  improvement  which  had 
taken  place  in  the  health  of  tho  invalid. 

In  this  manner  a  way  was  prepared  for  a 
meeting  between  these  two,  and  mother  and 
son  were  soon  in  one  another's  arms. 

At  first  that  mother  had  nothing  to  do 
but  to  nurse  that  son,  to  soothe  him,  and  to 
prohibit  him  from  mentioning  any  exciting 
circiinistances.  But  the  son  had  a  strong 
constitution,  which  had  favored  his  recovery, 
and  that  recovery  was  now  materially  hast- 
ened by  the  arrival  of  that  mother  whom  he 
tenderly  loved  ;  whose  presence  at  his  bed- 
side acted  like  a  healing  balm,  and  whoso 
very  words  seemed  to  have  some  soothing, 
some  vivifying  power.  After  her  arrival,  his 
recovery  grew  more  rapid,  and  at  1  ?ngth  he  was 
strong  enough  to  give  to  her  a  full  and  com- 
plete account  of  his  whole  history,  without  ex- 
cepting any  thing  whatever.  In  that  history 
she  found  many  things  to  question  him-ibout. 
She  asked  very  particularly  about  Inez  and 
I'.ossio.  She  interrogated  him  very  closely 
about  the  scone  at  tho  deatli-bcd  of  Ilennigar 
Wyvcrne,  and  also  asked  him  many  questions 
a'lout  his  fric;-  ■  Kane  Ilcllmuth.  She  was 
struck  by  tho  f.i'  '  that  Ilellrauth  was  an  as- 
sumed name ;  made  Blake  describe  his  per- 
sonal «ppoarance  ;  learned  from  him  the  his- 
tory of  hi-  marriage  with  Clara  Mordaunt ; 
and  was  anxious  to  know  whether  Blake  had 
not  found  out  his  real  name.  But  her  chief 
interest  was  evinced  in  O'Rourke,  about  whom 
she  questioned  Blake  over  and  over  again, 
seeking  to  know  ail  about  his  personal  ap- 
pearance, liis  1.0,  his  height,  his  gestures,  his 
accent,  his  idioms,  his  peculiarities  of  every 
sort.  Tho  conclusion  of  all  this  was  that  she 
at  length,  with  a  solemn  look  at  Blake,  ex- 
claimed :  "  This  O'Rourke  has  been  'deceiving 
you,  and  under  an  assumed  name.  His  real 
name  is  Kevin  Magrath.  It  is  iinpossiblo 
that  those  names  can  belong  to  any  other  ex- 
cept one  man." 

"  Kevin  Magrath  1 "  exclaimed  Bluke.  "  I 
never  heard  tho  name  before." 

"  I  suppose  not,  dear,"  said  his  mother  ; 
"  and  BO,  B9  you  arc  now  strong  enough,  I  will 


:,., 


.'!    i 


203 

tell  von  all  about  liini. 
undcrstanil  what  his 
you." 


Y 


AN   OPEX  QUESTION. 


Yoii  will  be  able  to 
desiRns  were    about 


CIIAriER  XLIX. 


MRS.    WYVKIINE. 


Blake's  motlier  regarded  him  very  car 
ncstly  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  said,  in  a 
low  voice : 

"  You  remember  well,  dear,  every  inci- 
dent at  the  death-bed  of  Mr.  Wyverne ;  you 
hare  not  told  me,  however,  all,  1  am  sure." 

Blake  looked  hastily  at  his  mother.  It 
was  true,  he  had  not  told  her  all.  The  dying 
man  bad  claimed  him  as  his  son ;  this  he  had 
not  mentioned  to  her — how  could  he  ? 

But  now,  as  he  looked  at  her,  he  saw  an 
expression  in  her  face  which  showed  him  that 
she  had  divined  his  secret,  and  had  suspected 
that  Mr.  Wyverne  had  said  more.  The  look 
which  slie  pave  him  invited  further  disclosure, 
without  koopinq  a'ly  thing  back.  Yet,  still, 
Blake  hesitated. 

"  When  he  said  that  Inez  was  not  his 
daughter,  had  he  nothing  to  say  to  you  ?  " 
she  asked.  "  He  must.  He  did.  I  see  it  in 
your  face.  You  are  keeping  it  back.  Don't 
be  afraid  ;  I  am  going  to  tell  you  all,  and  there 
is  nothing  in  this  that  should  make  you  hesi- 
tate about  telling  me." 

Upon  tills  Blake  hesitated  no  longer,  but 
told  hor  nil  the  particulars  of  the  last  scene 
in  which  lie  and  Inez  took  part — he  being 
owned  as  a  son,  iiiid  Inez  rejected  as  a 
daughter. 

His  mother  listened  attentively  to  it  nil, 
without  any  comment  whatever.  After  he 
had  ended,  she  said  : 

"  Ushould  lave  cxpl.iinod  it  nil  at  once  if 
1  had  only  seen  you,  dear,  but  we  have  never 
had  an  opportunity  finec  then.  There  was 
ro  reason  for  rcticcnre  on  your  part,  and 
tlure  is  nothing  in  it  that  is  to  be  dreaded 
either  by  you  or  by  me.  In  tin  first  [dace, 
then,  Basil  dear,  I  may  say  that  Mr.  Wy- 
vcrnc's  dying  declaration  is  tri.c.  You  are 
his  son,  Basil  Blake  Wyvenie,  and  I  am  Mrs. 
llonnigar  Wyverne,  your  mother  and  his 
wife." 

For  tho  latter  part  of  this  declaration 
Blake  was  utterly  nttprepared.  lu  his  former 
epeculationi"  as  to  tho  probability  of  Mr.  Wy- 


vernc's  staioment,  he  had  never  thought  of 
his  mother  as  having  lived  under  an  assumed 
name.  lie  had  only  thought  of  her  as  Mrs. 
Blake,  i.iid  from  this  point  of  view  the  ques- 
tion was  one  which  ho  did  not  care  to  open 
up.  Now,  however,  by  this  simple  statement, 
his  mother  had  cleared  up  the  ajiparent  mys- 
tery. Still,  another  wonder  remained,  and 
that  was  the  very  fact  that  she  had  stated. 
If  she  had  been  Mrs.  Wyverne,  why  had  she 
left  her  husband  ?  Why  had  she  lived  in  se- 
clusion under  an  assumed  name  ?  why  had 
she  kept  her  secret  so  carefully,  and  brought 
him  up  in  such  total  ignorance  of  his  parent- 
age? Together  with  these,  many  other  ques- 
tions occurred  to  his  mind  which  only  served 
to  bewilder  him. 

But  now  all  bewilderment  was  to  end. 
Ilia  mother  held  the  clew  by  which  he  could 
pass  to  the  innermost  centre  of  this  tortuous 
labyrinth  of  plot,  and  counterplot,  and  mys- 
tery, and  di.^guise. 

"  You  must  know  all,  Basil  dear,"  said 
she.  "  I  will  therefore  begin  at  the  begiuinng 
and  tell  you  the  whole  story." 

Basil  made  no  reply,  but  the  eager  look 
of  his  face  showed  how  great  was  his  desire 
to  hear  that  story. 

"  My  dear  papn,  saiil  Sirs.  Blake,  "  was 
a  doctor  in  London.  He  was  engaged  in  a 
large  practice,  but  the  style  in  which  he  found 
it  necessary  to  live  consumed  all  his  income. 
When  he  d.'."d  there  was  nothing  left  but  a 
life-assurance  policy  of  five  thousand  pounds, 
which  was  .-ettK'd  on  me,  and  has  boon  my 
support  in  late  years.  Some  time  before  his 
death,  however,  I  manii;d  Mr.  Wyverne,  and 
you  were  born,  and  we  lived  very  happily  un- 
til the  death  of  Bernal  Mordaunt,  and  the  ar- 
rival of  this  Kevin  Magrath  ujion  the  scene. 

"Your  papa  and  Bernal  Mordaunt  were 
relatives,  .Irst  or  second  cousins,  I  am  not 
pure  which,  ir.'l  had  always  been  bosom 
friends.  This  Kevin  Magrath  was  some  rel- 
ative of  Mr.  Wyvcrne's,  not  very  ne.ir,  tliough, 
and  Mr.  Wyverne's  father  had  helped  him  on 
in  life  very  greatly.  Ho  sent  hira  to  college 
at  Maynooth  to  study  for  tho  priesthood  ; 
but  Magrath  pot  into  diCiculties  there,  and 
Jiad  to  leave.  IIo  afterward  explained  the 
nffair  in  a  way  very  satisfactorily  to  the  elder 
Mr.  Wyverne,  wiio  received  him  again  into 
favor.  This  Mr.  Wyvemo  was  a  solicitor — I 
mean  your  papa's  father — and  admitted  Ma- 
grath into  hifl  oflioe,  with  the  iutcntiou  of 


MRS.   WYVEHXE. 


2oa 


iniikiiifi;  liipi  partner,  I  believo.  Ili.s  own  son, 
iiiy  Intsbami,  liiid  disliked  law,  and  was  en- 
;;aged  ia  tho  banking  busine.-?£.  Tlie  elder 
Mr.  W)-venie,  Jiowcver,  dieu  before  Magrath 
bad  gained  tbe  full  benefit  of  this  connection, 
so  that  he  had  once  more  to  look  about  in 
Hoareh  of  an  occupation.  Your  papa  now  as- 
sisted him,  and  Magrath  soon  acquired  an  im- 
mense ascendency  over  him.  He  was  np- 
j)arcntl_v  tlie  soul  of  frankness  and  honor,  and 
with  this  there  was  a  vein  of  quiet  humor 
about  tlio  limn  that  was  very  mucti  in  his 
favor;  but,  after  all,  he  was  wily,  selfish,  un- 
scrupulous, and,  in  short,  nil  that  you,  my 
poor,  dear  boy  have  found  him  to  be. 

"  I  did  not  see  very  much  of  him  until 
after  the  death  of  poor  Uernal  Monlaunt's 
wife.  We  used  to  see  the  Mordaunts — and 
the  children  were  great  pets  of  mine — Clara 
and  Inez.  Mrs.  Mordaunt  and  I  also  were 
very  tenderly  attached,  and  I  nursed  her  dur- 
ing her  last  illness.  Poor  Bcrnal  was  utterly 
prostrated  by  the  blow,  and  for  a  time  it  was 
fcarel  that  he  would  either  die  or  go  mad. 
At  length  he  went  to  the  Continent,  leaving 
tlie  children  under  my  care.  Tlie  next  we 
heard  of  him  was  that  he  was  going  to  become 
a  priest,  and  go  to  Asia  or  Africa.  After 
about  a  year's  absence,  this  news  was  con- 
(i-med  by  himself.  He  visited  us  to  sec  his 
children  for  tho  last  time,  and  to  make  ar- 
rangements for  their  future  welfare. 

"  These  arrangements  were  simple  enough, 
lie  loft  the  children  with  me,  for  they  loved 
me  like  a  mother,  and  appointed  your  papa 
their  guardian.  He  then  left,  and  in  about  a 
year  wo  heard  that  he  had  died  of  the  plague 
in  .Mexandria, 

"  N'ow  was  the  time  that  my  troubles  com- 
menced. Your  papa  began  to  drop  mysterious 
hints  aboi;t  tho  ctiildren.  He  talked  about 
sending  Clara  away  to  France,  and  then  he 
.vished  to  adopt  Inez  as  his  child,  and  call 
Iier  Iiict;  Wyverne.  At  first  these  proposals 
seemed  merely  foolish  and  nnmeaning,  and  I 
laughed  at  them  as  preposterous.  (Iradually, 
liowever,  ho  dwelt  upon  it  so  incessantly  that 
I  saw  that  he  was  iu  earnest  about  it;  and  I 
found  that  I  should  have  to  enter  upon  an 
actual  course  of  opposition.  I  found  the 
children  threatened  by  my  own  husband,  and 
myself  placed  in  the  painful  position  of  de- 
fender of  these  pour  orphans  Bg.iiiist  the  evil 
designs  of  a  man  who  was  hound,  by  every  tie 
of  duty,  honor,  and  afTectiou,  to  guard  them. 


"  This  discovery  was  soon  followea  oy 
another.  It  was  not  your  papa  himself  who 
had  originated  this.  I  ho])c  and  believe  that 
he  was  iacapable  of  it.  Kevin  Magrath  was 
the  real  originator,  and  he  had  gradually  in- 
sinuated it  into  your  papa's  mind  until  he- 
had  familiari/ed  his  thoughts  with  it.  I  have 
said  already  that  Magrath  had  gained  a 
strange  ascendency  over  him.  In  this  ease 
he  stood  behind  your  papa  like  some  ttnipt- 
er,  s:)me  Mephistopheles,  insidiously  whisper- 
ing his  evil  and  cruel  schemes  into  his  ear. 

"If  it  had  been  my  husband  only,  dear 
Basil,  I  am  certain  I  could  have  defended 
those  poor  lambs  successfully ;  but,  unfortu- 
nately, Kevin  Jfagrath  was  always  behind 
him,  and  whenever  my  remonstrances  or  my 
appeals  to  his  better  nature  produced  any  lit- 
tle effect,  it  was  sure  to  piss  away  in  a  short 
time  through  Magrath's  evil  ascendency,  -^nd 
so  I  found  that  my  own  intluonce  was  grow- 
ing less  and  less,  your  papa  was  becoming 
alienated  from  n;e,  and  I  was  very  miserable. 
I  had  no  friends  to  whom  I  could  go,  and  my 
only  relatives  were  very  distant  ones  whom  I 
had  never  seen.  About  a  year  passed,  and 
your  papa  finally  grew  impatient  to  carry  out 
his  measures,  so  one  day  he  took  Clara  away, 
during  my  absence  from  the  house.  When  I 
came  home  I  found  poor  little  Inez  sobbing 
in  a  most  heart-broken  manner,  and  I  learned 
tho  truth.  Then  all  my  indignation  burst 
forth.  Your  papa  and  I  quarrelled.  I  de- 
nounced him  in  tho  strongest  language.  I 
was  wild  with  indignation,  and  tho  opinion 
that  I  had  of  the  man  Magrath  made  me  cer- 
tain that  poor  little  Clara's  life  was  in  dan- 
ger. Y'our  papa  s  "~mcd  at  me — (Jeclared 
that  Clara  was  safe — ihat  she  had  gone  to  a 
convent-school  in  Paris,  and  would  receive  a 
good  education.  I  threatened  to  inform  against 
him,  but  lie  snecringly  asked  what  charge  I 
could  bring.  At  this  I  was  silenced;  for  in 
the  first  place,  is  a  wife,  I  could  hardly  bring 
my  husband  into  tho  public  gaze  as  a  crimi- 
nal ;  and,  again,  the  charge  which  I  had  to 
make  could  not  bo  sustained. 

"  I  still  tried  to  protect  the  remaining 
child  from  their  machinations.  Your  papa 
was  bent  on  carrying  out  his  design  of  chang- 
ing her  name.  What  that  design  really  aimed 
at  I  did  not  then  know,  but  I  fully  believed 
that  tho  intention  was  to  deal  dishonestly  and 
foully  by  both  Inez  and  Clarn.  Under  these 
circumstances  your  papa  and  I  grew  more 


^04 


AN    urKN    yUESTIOX. 


m: 


i  \ 


li  I) 


■  '■  'i' 


ii    ii 


ami  more  estningfd,  nioic  iiiid  moie  hostile, 
uutil  at  liist  his  dislike  or  oven  hntrcd  toward 
me  beoanie  evident  to  all.  lie  wished  to  get 
rid  of  ine  on  any  terras — he  wi.--hod  lo  put 
Inez  under  other  influences,  so  as  to  bring  her 
up,  no  dou'  1,  in  ignorance  of  her  real  name 
and  real  rights,  and  I  stood  in  the  waj'.  It 
l)ecanie  more  and  more  an  object  with  him  to 
get  rid  of  me.  At  length,  one  day,  incz  was 
taken,  and  sent  away  I  knew  not  where.  Upon 
this  I  grew  quite  wild  in  my  despair — once 
more  there  was  a  furious  scene,  in  which  I 
threatened  to  denounce  him  in  thn  Tacoof  the 
world.  Once  again  he  laughed  at  my  threats, 
and  told  me  that,  on  removing  the  children 
from  my  care,  he  had  otdy  sought  their  own 
good,  because  I  was  not  a  fit  person  to  take 
care  of  them — that  he  could  produce  them  at 
any  moment,  if  they  were  needed,  and  sikueo 
easily  any  siilv  clamor  that  I  might  raise.  In 
fact,  once  more  I  perceived  that  I  was  power- 
less. 

"  But  your  papa  had  designs,  and  my 
presence,  together  with  my  suspicions,  was 
very  nnwelconie.  lie  became  eager  to  get 
lid  of  me,  no  matter  h.o-v.  At  length  he  him- 
self proposed  this.  lie  said  that,  if  I  would 
go,  he  would  allow  mo  to  take  you;  but,  if 
I  refused,  he  wculd  find  a  way  to  make  me. 
I  then  dreaded  that  ho  might  deprive  me  of 
you  also,  and  this  last  fear  was  too  much. 
I'esidcs,  living  there  under  the  baleful  influ- 
ence of  Kevin  Magrath  was  intolerable,  and 
so,  at  length,  I  accepted  this  ofier. 

"That  is  the  reason  why  I  separated  from 
yiiur  papa,  liiisil  dear.  It  was  not  my  act — 
it  was  his.  rortunatcly,  I  was  quite  indepen- 
dent of  him.  no  had  stipulated  to  give  me 
an  allowance,  and  I  pretended  to  assent  to 
this;  but,  the  moment  I  had  got  safely  away 
with  you,  I  resolved  t'>  put  myself  out  of 
his  reach  altogether.  With  this  intention  I 
changed  my  name,  and  went  to  live;  in  a  little 
village  in  Wales,  near  Conway — the  place,  in 
fact,  which  you  knew  as  your  home;  and  for 
years  neither  your  ptpa  nor  Kevin  Magrath 
had  the  faintest  idea  where  I  was,  or  whether 
we  were  alive  or  dead. 

"  Tlie  opinion  wiiich  I  formed  then  ns  to 
the  plot  of  this  Kevin  Magrath — the  plot  which 
lie  induced  your  father  to  try  to  carry  into  ac- 
complishment— I  have  never  changed  since ; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  subsequent  events  have 
all  tended  to  confirm  that  opinion  only  too 
painfully.     I  thought  that  he  was  trying  no 


less  a  thing  than  to  get  control  of  the  great 
Mordaunt  inheritance.  I  am  not  sure,  but  I 
think,  that  your  papa  was  next  of  kin  to  Ber- 
nal  Mordaunt,  after  his  own  children ;  and, 
consequently,  if  these  children  should  by  any 
means  bo  put  out  of  the  way — if  it  could  be 
made  to  appear  that  they  were  dead — why, 
tlicn,  your  papa  would  gain  the  great  Mor- 
daunt inheritance,  and  possibly  Kevin  Ma- 
grath would  himself  obtain  such  a  share  of 
the  prize  as  might  be  commensurate  with  his 
own  services.  Now,  I  saw  Clara  taken  away 
to  a  foreign  country,  and  never  expected  to 
see  her  again.  This  I  considered  the  begin- 
ning of  that  policy  which  was  to  make  the 
children  as  good  as  dead,  so  as  to  clear  the 
way  for  the  next  of  kin.  When  Inez  followed, 
then  I  felt  sure  that  she  was  the  next  victim. 

"  It  appears,  however,  that  Kevin  Magrath 
did  not  intend  to  lay  violent  hands  on  them. 
His  purpose,  no  doubt,  was  to  get  them  out 
of  the  Avay,  and  either  make  up  a  ph.usiblc 
story  of  their  death,  accompanied,  of  course, 
by  the  necessary  proofs,  or  else  bring  forward 
creatures  of  their  own  as  substitutes.  Wlio 
this  Bessie  Mordaunt  can  be,  of  whom  you 
speak,  I  cannot  imagine.  There  arc  no  rela- 
tives named  Mordaunt.  Your  papa  was  the 
next  of  kin,  and  it  looks  as  if  this  Bessie 
may  be  some  one  used  by  these  ari-l'-plotters 
ns  a  means  of  gaining  the  cstat  \  i  cannot 
imagine  where  your  papa  could  ha"e  obtained 
her,  but  I  take  it  for  granted,  of  couuo,  that 
she  is  some  creature  of  Kevin  Magratii's.  He 
had  a  little  family,  I  remember — a  wife  and 
daughter — but  that  is  out  of  the  question,  of 
course. 

"  Well,  I  may  as  well  go  on  w  ith  my  story. 
After  I  had  left  your  papa,  I  was  not  idle.  I 
put  you  at  a  boarding-school,  and  spent  three 
months  in  Paris  searching  after  Clara  Mor- 
daunt. I  stiecccdcd  in  finding  her  at  last. 
She  was  quite  happy,  and  I  did  not  like  to 
distress  her  by  telling  her  what  was  going  on. 
I  therefore  did  not  speak  to  her  at  all  about 
any  of  her  family  afi'airs,  but  was  satisfied  to 
find  that  she  remembered  me  and  loved  me. 
She,  of  course,  knew  mo  by  my  true  name. 
She  called  Mr.  Wyverne  her  guardian,  and  had 
no  suspicion  of  any  evil  on  his  p;.rt.  She  had 
never  seen  him  since  she  left  our  house.  She 
thought  my  visit  wa'  known  t"  him.  After 
this  I  kept  watch  over  her.  I  could  find  out 
nothing  about  Inez,  however,  for  some  time. 
j  At  length,  to  my  horror,  Clara  disappcarca 


MltS.    WYVEKNE. 


905 


They  told  mc  at  the  school  aljoiit  a  runaway- 
match,  and  I  found  out  that  it  was  only  too 
true.  Slie  had  married  some  adventurer,  they 
Eald.  I  learned  tliat  his  name  waj  Rutliven. 
lie  belonged  to  a  good  family." 

"Ruihven!"  exclaimed  Blake. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wyvcrne,  not  noticing 
the  astonishment  that  was  visible  in  the  face 
of  iier  son  as  he  said  this — "yes,  a  Mr.  Uuth- 
ven,  younger  son  of  a  grcit  family,  but  a  roue 
and  a  man  of  bad  reputation.  He  had  run 
away  with  her,  they  said,  nrd,  in  sliort,  it 
was  the  old,  old  story.  For  my  part,  Basil 
dear,  at  tliat  time  I  had  no  doubt  that  this 
was  tiie  doing  of  llagrath  ;  that  this  Buthven 
was  his  emissary,  and  that  this  had  been 
done  to  remove  Clara  Mordaunt  out  of  his 
wr.  It  is  the  peculiarity  of  this  man's  na- 
ture always  to  avoid  crime  himself,  and  to 
carry  out  his  purposes  by  what  I  may  call 
natural  nn>ans  ;  tlius,  instead  of  doing  any  act 
of  violence  himself  against  those  who  might 
bo  in  his  way,  he  rhosc  ratlier  to  effect  their 
removal  in  such  a  way  as  should  prevent  any 
guilt  from  attaching  to  him.  He  would  not 
injure  Clara  directly,  but  he  caused  her  to  be 
utterly  ruined  by  means  of  this  emissary, 
who  was  only  too  successful  in  his  purpose. 

"  Welt,  you  iniy  imagine  my  despair  when 
[  learned  this,  and  when,  after  all  my  efforts, 
I  could  find  no  trace  of  licr.  I  returned  home, 
and  wondered  how  all  this  would  end,  and 
chafed  all  the  time  against  my  own  weakness 
and  helplessness.  For  I  could  no  nothing.  I 
knew  that,  in  tiie  eyes  of  Heaven,  crimes  had 
been  committed  by  these  men,  yet  I  could 
prove  no  crimes.  Through  the  f-^ft  of  ila- 
grath  they  hid  kept  themsc'.v^s  uut  of  the 
reach  <if  human  law. 

"  In  the  midst  of  my  unliappiness  about 
Clara,  I  received  a  letter  from  her.  I  had 
told  her  once  before  where  I  lived,  allowing 
her  to  supnre  that  Jir.  ".'yvcrne  lived  there 
too,  trusting  icr  w'  .  my  secret,  because  I 
knew  that  she  vc.id  not  be  in  a  position  to 
divulge  it,  since  she  never  saw  your  papa. 
So  she  wrote  to  n.o,  addressing  the  letter  to 
Mrs.  Wyverne.  I  hud  t  /  make  up  some 
plausible  story  to  the  post-woman,  who  kept 
the  little  shop  where  the  post-office  was,  so 
as  to  get  tiiat  letter,  pretending  to  her  that 
Wyverne  was  an  assumed  name,  and  making 
up  a  story  to  suit  the  occasion,  and  thus  I 
was  able  to  get  ii.  It  was  a  heart-rending 
letter.      She  spoke   of   poverty,  danger,  de- 


spair, and  death,  and  entreated  mc  to  hasten 
on  and  do  something  to  save  her.  It  was 
vaguely  expressed,  but  I  saw  that  she  wac  in 
great  danger.  She  signed  herself  Clara  lUith- 
vcn,  by  which  I  saw  that  she  was  married,  or 
at  least  supposed  herself  to  be.  I  hastened  on. 
I  hurried  to  the  house  which  she  mentioned  as 
her  lodgings,  and  arrived  there  only  to  find 
her  in  a  raging  fever.  The  people  of  the 
house  told  me  that  she  had  only  been  there 
a  few  days ;  that  she  had  come  in  a  great 
state  of  excitement,  and,  after  sending  off  a 
letter  which  they  supposed  was  to  mo,  she 
had  been  seized  with  illness,  which  had  grown 
worse  and  worse.  She  was  delirious  for  a 
long  time,  but  eventually  recovered.  I  re- 
mained with  her  and  nursed  her,  as  I  had 
nursed  her  mother;  but  she,  more  fortunate, 
yet  •perhaps,  after  all,  less  fortunate,  was 
saved  from  her  mother's  file,  and  was  re- 
stored eventually  to  life  and  health. 

"  I  found  her  grateful  beyond  all  power 
of  language  to  express — most  touehingly  so 
— yet  there  was  over  her  a  profound  and  in- 
vincible sadness,  which  bordered  on  despair. 
On  the  events  which  had  occurred  since  her 
elopement  she  would  not  speak.  She  raado 
no  reference  whatever  to  her  letter.  She 
preserved  a  most  obstinate  silence  auout  all 
these  things,  and  I  know  no  more  of  Iheni 
now  than  you  do.  Something  terrible,  how- 
ever, had- iiappened.  Her  husband  —  for  I 
will  call  him  this — had  either  died  or  he  had 
forsaken  her.  I  do  not  know  which  ;  and, 
whichever  it  was  that  had  taken  place,  the 
effect  was  to  crush  out  in  her  young  heart  all 
joy  and  hope  forever. 

"I  tried  to  induce  her  to  return  to  Eng- 
land and  live  with  me,  but  she  refused.  I 
then  told  her  the  truth  about  her  life.  She 
was  actually  ignorant  that  she  was  the  heir- 
ess f  f  Mordaunt  Manor.  She  did  not  remem- 
ber nuch  about  her  youth.  She  had  lived  so 
long  amid  foreign  scenes,  that  this  remem- 
brance had  died  out.  Besides,  she  had  not 
lived  very  constantly  at  Mordaunt  Manor,  but 
had  lived  in  Italy  for  several  years  with  her 
mother,  who  was  an  invalid.  But,  when  I 
told  lier  the  truth,  it  had  no  effect  whatever. 
I  told  her  about  her  sister  Inez,  but  she  was 
indillcrent.  She  would  not  leave  Paris.  There 
was  some  mournful  attraction  abo\it  the  place 
which  kept  her  there.  She  only  longed  to 
finil  some  home  there,  where  she  might  live  iu 
peace  and  seclusion.  At  length  she  conceived 


30G 


AN   OPEN'   QUESTION'. 


a  strong  desire  to  become  a  Sister  of  Cliavity. 
She  thouglit  tbiit  sucli  a  life  would  give  bcr 
the  seclusion  and  peace  wbich  sbc  longed  for, 
and,  lit  tbo  same  time,  that  she  would  have 
sufficient  occupation  to  distract  her  thoughts 
and  save  her  from  despair. 

"l''rom  that  resolve  I  found  it  impossible 
to  move  bcr.  Every  thing  that  I  mentioned 
was  received  with  indifl'erence,  and  at  length 
I  found  it  necesfiary  to  desist  and  to  yield  to 
her  desires.  She  found  a  sisterhood  at  last, 
and  entered  upon  her  novitiate.  Then  I  left 
her,  and  have  never  seen  her  since,  though 
we  have  exchanged  lettei-s  every  year," 


CIIAPTER  L. 

A     MOTRKIl'S    PLOT. 

Blakk  had  listened  thus  far  almost  in  si- 
lence, but  these  last  revelations  about  Clara 
filled  him  with  the  strongest  emotion.  He 
bad  already  heard  from  Kane  the  story  of 
Claru  .^  marriage,  and  the  tragic  termination 
of  that  married  life  ;  but  his  mother's  story 
furnished  an  appendix,  or  rather  a  sequel,  to 
that  story  scarcely  less  tragic  than  that  which 
Kane  had  told  of.  Yet  Kane's  jierfect  belief 
in  her  death,  bis  vigils  over  her  grave,  in 
Pere-la-Chaisc,  were  so  well  known  to  Blake 
that  they  had  inspired  him  with  the  same  be- 
lief, and  now  he  could  hardly  credit  bis  moth- 
er's revelations. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  to  say,"  ho  ex- 
cliumed  at  last,  as  she  paused  in  her  nar- 
rative, "  that  Clara  Mordiuint,  after  all,  is  not 
dead  i' " 

"  She  certainly  is  not  dead,"  said  his 
mother,  placidly.  "  Have  I  not  been  telling 
all  about  her  life  ?  " 

"  She  Is  alive  now — really  and  truly  ?  " 

"  Ecally  and  truly.  But  it  seems  to  me 
that  you  show  a  very  strange  kind  of  feeling 
about  it.  How  agitated  you  arc,  Basil 
dear ! " 

"  Alive  !  "  repeated  Blako, 
"  alive — and  a  Sister  of  Charity  '/ 
nun — a  nun  in  black — " 

"  What  is  all  that  ?  "  asked  his  mother. 
"  What  are  you  saying  about  nuns,  and 
things  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  said  Blukc  ;  "  only,  its 
confoun<lcdly  strange.  But  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it." 


musingly ; 
That  is— a 


Upon  this  Blake  proceeded  to  tell  Lor 
about  Kane,  and  Kane's  occount  of  his  mar- 
riage, and  Kane's  fancy  about  opparitions. 
To  all  of  this  his  mother  listened  in  evident 
surprise,  and  with  much  emotion. 

"  Wonders  will  never  cease,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  Who  could  have  imagined  this  ? 
So  your  friend  Kane  Ilellmuth  must  be  Kane 
Ruthvcn — and  so  he  is  not  an  emissary  of 
Magrath's,  but  an  honest  man." 

"  An  honest  man  ! "  cried  Blake.  "  I  tell 
you,  mother  dear,  he  is  one  of  the  noblest 
fellows  that  I  ever  saw.  There  was  no  hum- 
bug there,  I  can  tell  you.  No  man  ever  loved 
a  womai;»bctter  than  he  did  Clara  llordaunt. 
Why,  only  think  of  him  now,  with  his  blighted 
life,  and  his  misery  and  remorse  !  " 

"  So — that  was  it,"  continued  Mrs.  Wy- 
venie ;  "  and  that  accounts  for  poor  Clara's 
despair.  She  escaped  death,  and  he  died — or 
she  thought  he  did.  But  how  strange,  in  such 
a  solemn  and  really  awful  attempt  at  suicide, 
that  both  should  escape,  and  each  go  into  de- 
spair about  the  other." 

"Whj,   they  must  have  met  over   and 
over.    These  meetings  have  seemed  to  Kano 
to  bo  apparitions.      I  wonder  if  they  have 
seemed  so  to  her?   Oh,  why  didn't  she  speak  ? 
Why   didn't  she  explain,   instead  of   giving 
hiui  silent,  despairing  looks  ;'  " 
Sirs.  Wyverne  sighed. 
"  I  can  understand,"  said  she.     "  It's  all 
over  with  them — she  is  dead  to  Lira." 
"  Dead  to  him  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  sho  is  a  Sister  of  Charity.  She 
has  taken  the  vows,  and  so  she  is  dead  to 
poor  Kane — and  that,  no  dou  <■,  is  the  reason 
why  she  has  looked  at  him  so — in  dumb  de- 
spair. I  can  understand  it  all.  She  thought 
him  dead.  His  absence  for  years  confirmed 
that  belief.  These  meetings  must  have  af- 
fected her  as  they  affected  him.  She  is,  at 
least,  as  superstitious  as  he  is.  But,  in  any 
case,  it  is  just  as  well,  since  tlicy  never  can 
belong  to  one  another  again." 

At  this  sad  thought  Blake  was  silent.  Hia 
first  feeling  had  been  one  of  joy.  He  thought 
of  flying  at  once  to  tell  Kane  the  news,  but 
now  he  saw  that  such  news  as  this  had  better 
not  be  told  to  bis  friend. 

"  But  I  must  go  on,"  continued  Mrs.  Wy- 
verne, "  and   tell  you  something  about  my 
share  in  these  later  events  of  your  life,  Basil 
dear.     Well,  then,  for  years  I  had  no  commu-    ■ 
nication  with  youi'  father,  and  preserved  my 


A   MOTlIKlfS   IM.OT. 


2or 


incognilo  and  my  seclusion  most  carefully.  I 
beanl,  hoMCver,  from  time  to  time,  tlmt  be 
was  ulive,  tliougli  ho  never  could  have  heard 
any  tliinj;  about  mo.  At  length  you  had  liu- 
iahed  your  education,  and  you  got  tlmt  situa- 
tion ill  Tiuis,  and  it  gocmed  to  me  that  you 
ouj;ht  to  know  soraotliing  about  your  past, 
yi't  I  did  not  know  exactly  how  to  ttU  you, 
for  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  terrible  thing  to 
tell  a  son  about  a  father's  guilt.  Tlien,  again, 
I  thought  that,  if  your  father  could  only  see 
you,  he  might  fee!  some  emotion  of  allection  ; 
and  i.>o:'<sibly,  if  he  were  brought  into  coinicc- 
tion  with  you  in  any  way,  you  might  gain  an 
inllucncc  over  his  better  nature,  by  moans  of 
which  tlie  fatal  ascendency  of  .MagratU  might 
be  destroyed. 

"  With  these  hopes  I  made  a  journey  to 
London  very  secretly,  and  succeeded  in  find- 
ing out  all  about  your  papa's  circumstances. 
1  learned  that  he  was  in  very  feeble  liealth.  I 
learned  that  he  had  a  family  consi.uing  of  two 
young  ladies,  one  of  whom  was  named  Inez 
Wyvcrno,  and  the  otiier,  Bessie  Mordaunt. 
Who  liossie  Mordaimt  was  I  did  not  know, 
nor  do  I  now  know;  but,  as  to  Inez  Wy- 
vornc,  there  could  be  no  doubt.  I  saw  at 
once  tliat  he  had  carried  Lis  oid  |dan — or 
rather  Jlagrath's  old  plan — into  execui'on, 
ami  that  my  poor  darling  Inez  had  been 
brought  up  in  tiie  belief  tliat  iicr  name  was 
■\Vyverne,  and  that  she  was  his  daugliter 
Yet  even  this  discovery  of  his  unfalteriig 
pursuit  of  his  ptirpose  did  not  destroy  the 
hope  which  I  had  formed  of  working  ca  Lira 
througii  you. 

"  Circumstances  favored  my  wi.sh.  I 
learned  that  he  was  going  to  the  Continent  for 
his  liealth,  and  that  St.  Malo  was  his  destina- 
tion. And  now,  llasil  dear,  you  understand 
why  I  wrote  you  so  ciunostly  about  your 
hoaUh  ;  why  I  insisted  so  strongly  upon  your 
having  some  recreation  ;  why,  above  all,  I  al- 
most orilered  you  to  go  io  St.  Halo.  You 
ntust  have  wondered  at  what  you  considered 
a  woman's  whim  ;  but  it  was  not  that,  Basil 
dear;  it  was  something  far  deeper.  And  I 
insisted  on  your  going  tlierc  solely  because  I 
hoped  that  you  might  meet  with  your  own 
father.  Hut  I  did  not  trust  to  accident.  I 
made  sure  of  a  mooting  between  you.  I  wrote 
him  a  loiter,  and  reminded  him  of  all  the 
past;  of  that  better  past,  the  past  of  inno- 
cence, of  love,  and  of  domestic  joy.  I  ro- 
minded  him  of  the  child  whom  he  once  loved 


before  his  soul  liad  becoiuo  darkened  and  hia 
heart  hardened  tlirougii  the  wiles  of  the 
Tempter.  I  told  him  that  his  son — our  son 
— the  associate  of  his  better  past,  and  of  tho 
days  of  Lis  innocence,  was  now  a  man — an 
honoraldc  gentleman  ;  and  that  this  son  would 
be  at  St.  Malo's,  ready  there  to  become  Lia 
better  angel,  and  lead  Idni  back  to  virtue  and 
peace.  I  told  him  how  you  had  been  brought 
up,  Basil  dear;  how  ignorant  you  were  of  all 
his  faults;  how  ignorant  you  were  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  any  connection  witli  the  name  of 
^\'yvcrne.  I  told  him  that  I  had  heard  of  his 
proposed  journey  to  St.  Malo's,  and  had  made 
you  pronnse  to  go  there,  with  tho  hope  that 
the  guilty  father  might  meet  ^^ith  the  inno- 
cent son,  and  might  be  moved  to  repentance 
through  a  father's  lovo. 

"  And,  0  Basil  dear,  how  can  I  tell  you 
the  feelings  that  I  had  as  I  received  your  let- 
ters— tliosc  letters  which  showed  me  that  ho 
had  yet  lingering  in  his  heart  tho  feelings  of  a 
fatlier?  He  had  not  forgotten  the  child  whom 
ho  once  loved.  Avarice  had  hardened  his 
heart,  but  sicknc'S  and  weakness  had  softened 
it  again,  and  the  sight  of  you  awakened  a  deep 
yearning  within  hini.  Xow  you  know  all. 
N'ow  you  understand  why  it  was  that  the  poor 
invalid  clung  to  •'•ou,  why  he  yielded  to  you, 
why  he  tlirew  at  you  those  looks  of  deep  af- 
fection, why  he  loved  to  see  you  with  the  in- 
jured Inez.  lie  had  repented.  lie  was  long- 
ing to  make  amends,  lie  could  not  tell  you 
all  that  was  in  his  heart  to  say.  lie  could 
not  rovoal  to  you  tho  truth  about  his  past  life, 
for  fear  that  you  would  scorn  him.  He  had 
my  address,  and  wrote  mo  one  or  two  letters, 
full  of  repentance  for  his  past.  lie  implored 
my  forgiveness.  lie  promised  to  make  amends. 
He  spoke  of  his  deep  lovo  for  yon.  He  en- 
treated me  to  find  some  way  of  making  known 
those  things  to  you  without  exciting  your  de- 
testation. He  wished  me  to  come  on  at  once, 
an  I  j'^in  him,  and  tell  all  to  you  in  such  a  way 
tha  ytu  might  own  hit;;  for  your  father.  He 
spoke  of  your  regard  for  Inez,  and  expressed 
tlie  hope  that  a  union  between  you  'wo  might 
be  brought  about;  for  son.ehow  he  seoiiicd  co 
consider  this  the  best  sor',  of  atonement  that 
lie  could  make. 

"  I  was  overcome.  I  was  not  very  well 
just  then,  and  could  not  travel.  Besides,  I 
thought  it  best  to  wait,  leaving  you  two  to 
know  one  another  better.  The  profound 
reverence    which    you    expressed    for    him 


im    '  )>i 


:.'08 


AX   Ol'EX   QUESTION. 


loucliud  me,  iind  1  wished  tliia  reverence  to 
deepen  into  alTcction;  and  then  I  thought  I 
would  jdiii  you,  and  my  work  of  rcconcilia- 
liou  would  bo  made  easier.  Oil,  if  I  had  but 
gone  on  tlicn  !  How  much  sufieiing  would 
have  been  prevented  for  all  of  us !  IJut  I 
octed  for  the  best. 

"  Well,  dear  Ha.sil,  you  linow  the  rest. 
You  went  away  to  Switzerland,  and  there 
your  poor  papa  died.  Tlint  letter  wliich  you 
spoke  of  struck  him  down.  I  don't  know 
wlint  was  in  it,  but  it  was  undoubtetily  .sonic 
i-ommuiiieation  from  Kevin  Miigrath — ?onie 
threat — .=ome  terror.  At  any  rate,  he  sunk 
down  to  death,  and  strove  vainly,  at  the  last, 
to  make  some  feeble  amends  by  expressions 
of  remorse,  by  a  declaration  of  the  truth.  0 
liasill  tliat  father's  heart  yearned  over  you 
then,  as  Death  stood  near;  and  I  believe — I 
'  .low — that  his  repentance  was  sincere.  I'ray, 
IJasil  dear — pray  for  your  father;  pray  for 
the  repose  of  the  soul  of  the  repentant  Ilcn- 
nigar  Wyvcrne!  " 

Mrs.  ^Vyvcrne  stopjied,  overcome  by  deep 
emotion.  Dlake  also  felt  himself  profoundly 
moved.  His  mother's  story  brought  up  vivid- 
ly before  him  the  form  of  that  venerable  in- 
VTlid  who  had  manifested  such  a  Ktrong  re- 
pard  for  him — the  form  of  that  dying  man 
who,  at  the  last  hour  of  life,  had  claimed  him 
ns  a  son.  It  had  been  all  a  mystery,  but  now 
nil  was  revealed.  AVhat  he  had  considered  a 
Ptrange  coincidence  was  now  shown  to  be  no 
coincidence  at  all,  but  the  result  of  his  moth- 
er's management,  and  of  her  dc.-iie  to  bring 
father  and  pon  together. 

There  was  nothing  which  he  could  say  on 
Fuch  a  subject.  It  was  a  painfid  one  from 
any  point  of  view.  Jlis  father's  past  could 
not  be  discussed,  as  it  was  a  past  filled  with 
wrong-doing  too  late  repented  of.  Ilia  fa- 
ther's death-bed  was  too  sad  a  theme  for  con- 
versation 

liut  there  were  other  thoughts  which  had 
been  Bu^rgestcd  by  these  revelations,  and 
prominent  among  them  was  his  mother's  con- 
viction that  O'liourkc  was  no  otiier  than 
Kevin  JIagrath.  O'Hourke,  he  well  knew, 
must  h;.ve  s(.mc  motive.  Down  in  the  gloom 
of  the  Catacombs,  at  that  first  appalling  mo- 
ment of  desertion,  he  liad  fancied  for  a  time 
that  his  betr.iyer  must  be  a  madman  ;  but 
after  he  had  heard  those  words  stealing 
through  the  jiiled-up  stones  to  his  ears, 
"/.Y<iAe  Wijvcruc,  J'trcvcU  forever  !  "  lie  saw- 


that  this  treachery  must  liavo  been  premedi- 
tated, and  that  it  must  have  arisen  out  of  \\\* 
relation  to  IIenni;,'ar  "Wyverno.  Now,  when 
that  relation  was  assured,  it  became  a  more 
certain  cause  than  ever  for  O'Kourke's  treach- 
ery. Yet  why  it  should  be  a  cause,  and  what 
benefit  O'lJourke  could  hope  to  gain,  re- 
maino<l  as  much  a  mystery  as  ever. 

"  It  may  be  true,  mother  dear,"  said  he, 
"  that  O'Jtourke  is  only  your  Kevin  Magrath 
under  on  assumed  name.  I  don't  deny  it, 
since  you  arc  so  sure  aboiit  it ;  but  I  confess 
it  is  a  puzzle  to  me  why  O'lJourke,  or  Ma- 
grath, or  whoever  he  is,  should  take  the 
trouble  to  elaborate  so  intricate  a  ])lot  against 
such  an  insignificant  personage  as  I  am. 
What  am  I,  that  he  should  labor  so  secretly, 
so  persistently,  and  for  so  long  a  time,  to 
compass  my  destruction  ?  What  benefit  could 
he  get  by  it  ?  I  must  say,  it  Hcems  to  me,  in 
the  hackneyed  French  phrase,  "  the  play  isn't 
worth  the  candle." 

Mrs.  Wyverno  looked  gravely  up. 

"  You  speak  now,"  eaid  she,  "  as  Basil 
Blake,  not  as  Basil  Wyvcrne.  You  forget 
that,  though  Basil  Blake  is  insignificant,  Basil 
Wyverne  is  very  much  the  contrary.  He  is 
the  son  and  heir  of  Ilennigar  Wyvcrne,  a 
we'1-known  London  banker  of  great  wcnlth. 
What  he  had  of  his  own  was  immense ;  what 
he  has  appropriated  from  the  Mordaunt  prop- 
erty I  cannot  tell ;  but  certain  it  is  that  you, 
his  son,  are  the  heir  of  a  vast  fortune.  This 
of  itself  would  be  a  prize  Kufiicier.t  to  induce 
Kevin  Magrath  to  get  you  removed,  t^uppos- 
ing  that  you  were  removed,  I  do  not  see  ex- 
actly bow  he  could  enter  upon  the  possession 
of  the  estate  of  your  pajia,  but  I  have  no 
doubt  that  he  would  manage  to  do  it.  At 
any  rate,  you  may  be  sure  that  this  was  his 
motive,  lie  went  to  the  Catacombs  w  ith  you, 
as  he  said,  for  a  great  treasure — not,  how- 
ever, for  his  pretended  treasure  of  the  Ch'- 
sars,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  more  common- 
place treasure  of  the  Wyverncs.  f^uch  a 
treasure  was  worthy,  in  his  estimation,  of 
such  .1  deed.  And  you  sec,  Basil  dear,  his 
hand.  You  see  how  cautiously,  how  elabo- 
rately, he  has  worked.  lie  has  tried  to  re- 
move you  iVom  the  world,  so  that  you  should 
leave  no  trace  whatever.  If  you  bad  not  es- 
caped, there  would  not  have  been  even  the 
faintest  indication  which  might  have  disclosed 
your  fate.  Y'ou  would  have  vanished  from 
the  scene  ut'.erly.     Your  incoherent  letter  to 


pio'ncdi- 
mt  of  \t\» 
o\v,  wlien 
e  a  more 
j's  ticaeli- 
and  nliut 
gain,    It- 
said  lie, 
Slagnitli 
deny  it, 
I  coiifesH 
kf,  or  Ma- 
Inko   tlio 
ot  against 
a^   I   nni. 
10  Bocrclly, 
a  time,  t(i 
cnclit  could 
IS  to  mo,  in 
ic  play  i(!n't 

up. 

'  as  Basil 
You  forget 
(leant,  Basil 
avy.  He  is 
■NVyvciuc,  a 
;rcat  Mcnllli. 
iicnse  ;  what 
idaunt  prop- 
is  lliat  you, 
rluiic.  Tliis 
■nt  to  induce 
;d.     fc^uppos- 

IlOt   SCO    cx- 

c  possession 
t  1  have  no 
)  du  it.  At 
tliis  was  liis 
,1)3  with  you, 
I — not,  how- 
!  of  the  Cft'- 
ire  common- 
cs.  Fucli  a 
timation,  of 
\sil  dear,  his 
,  how  clabo- 
tricd  to  re- 
t  you  should 
.  had  not  cs- 
'cn  even  tho 
live  disclosed 
tnished  from 
rent  letter  to 


A    ilOTlIKH'S    I'LUT. 


209 


mo  told  uolhing  at  ull,  .md  I  imagine  the  let- 
ter that  you  wrote  to  your  friend  Kane  must 
have  been  ciiually  unintelligible.  When  I  re- 
ceived your  letter,  I  liad  just  recovered  from 
a  sovero  illnctis,  and  the  fears  which  it  created 
almost  sent  me  back  again." 

"  lUnesH,  mothor  dear  t  "  said  Blake,  anx- 
ioufcly.  "  You  never  mentiuucd  that  be- 
fore." 

"Illness?  0  my  boy!"  said  Mrs.  ^Vy. 
verno.  "  It  is  not  worth  speaking  of,  since  it 
is  past;  but,  while  it  lasted,  I  was  as  near  to 
death  iis  you  wore  in  the  Catacombs.  It  was 
the  news  of  the  death  of  your  poor  papa  that 
Intrude  me  down.  It  cuine  so  sudden,  and  at 
the  very  time,  too,  when  I  was  indulging  in 
such  briglit  hopes.  I  was  preparing  to  join 
you,  and  to  perform  the  part  of  general  rec- 
onciler. I  hoped  to  be  joinod  at  last  to  the 
husband  of  my  youth,  with  whom  I  had  lived 
in  the  happiest  part  of  my  life.  O  Basil ! 
dear  boy,  you  do  not  know,  you  cannot  ima- 
gine how  strongly  I  had  set  my  heart  on  this 
reunion,  on  this  reconciliation.  But  suddenly 
the  news  came,  and  all  these  hopes  were 
dashed  to  tlie  ground.  The  blow  was  a  ter- 
rible one,  and  for  a  time  all  hope  died  out, 
and  all  desire  for  life.  I  was  utterly  pros- 
trated, and  remained  so  for  weeks.  During 
all  that  time  I  heard  nothing  from  you,  and  a 
great  anxiety  came  over  nie.  This  made  it 
worse.  Your  incoherent  and  unintelligible 
letter  gave  me  nothing  but  uneasiness,  and, 
as  nothing  followed  it,  I  sank  into  despair. 
At  length  I  recovered  my  bodily  strength,  and 
was  able  to  move  about;  but  siill,  dear  boy, 
r  could  never  find  any  respite  whatever  from 
the  dreadful  suspense  and  anxiety  in  which  I 
was  about  you.  At  last  your  letter  came, 
telling  me  that  you  had  been  ill,  an<l  wanted 
ino.  Such  a  letter  at  ordinary  times  would 
have  been  sad  indeed,  but  to  me,  under  those 
circumstances,  it  was  like  a  resurrection  from 
despair.  I  found  new  life  and  strength,  and 
hurried  on  to  you  at  once.  But,  apart  from 
my  own  misfortunes,  what  you  told  me  about 
yours,  Basil  dear,  makes  me  feel  certain  that 
your  Dr.  O'ilouriio  is  no  other  than  Kevin 
Magrath.  He's  no  more  a  doctor  than  I  am. 
lie  played  the  part  of  one  merely  for  the  pur- 
pose of  making  your  acquiiintanco.  He  is  no 
more  a  doctor  than  he  is  a  priest." 

"  It  was  as  a  priest  that  Kane  saw  him," 
said  Blake,  who  then  went  on  to  tell  about 
Kane's  journey  to  London, 
li 


"  Yes,  yes,  oh,  yen,"  said  lira.  VVyvcrne, 
as  ho  ended.  "Every  thing  that  you  tell  mo 
only  shows  more  and  more  plainly  the  un- 
mistakablo  marks  of  Kevin  Magratii,  Now, 
not  one  word  of  all  that  he  told  Kane  wa.i 
true.  Inez  was  not  the  daughter  of  llennigar 
Wyvcrne,  and  ho  knew  it.  llennigar  W'y. 
vernedid  not  die  poor,  for  he  left  an  inunc'.:^o 
property,  which  perhaps  Magrath  is  now  try- 
ing to  gain  for  himself.  Above  all,  C'lari  i.s 
not  dead,  and  he  could  not  have  known  any 
thing  about  her." 

"But,  mother  dear,  if  this  terrible  Kevin 
Magrath  is  so  anxious  to  get  tho  Wyveruo 
property,  what  will  he  do  about  you  ?  " 

"About  me?  Well,  I  don't  know.  I 
have  taken  care  to  keep  out  ol  his  reach.  IIo 
is  not  the  man  to  overlook  me,  however  in- 
significant I  may  bo.  No  doubt  ho  baa  hia 
designs  with  regard  to  me.  I  dare  say  ho 
has  formed  some  plan,  if  he  can  find  nie,  to 
work  upon  my  love  fr  you,  to  invent  lomo 
story  about  your  going  to  America,  and  en- 
tice  me  away,  where  I  shall  never  trouble  him 
again.  That  is  his  mode  of  action.  If  you, 
dear,  had  not  written  to  me,  ho  might  huvo 
done  this,  for  I  would  have  gone  to  tho  north- 
pole  after  you,  even  on  the  strength  of  a 
forged  letter  or  a  trumped-up  story  ;  but  now, 
Basil  boy,  since  I  have  you,  there  is  no  need 
for  us  to  conjecture  any  thing  as  to  what 
Kevin  Magrath  might  have  done." 

"Did  you  stop  in  London  on  your  way 
here?"  asked  Blake,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"  Stop  in  London,  dear  Basil  ?  Of  courso 
not." 

"  You  did  not  hear  any  thing,  then,  about 
Inez  ? " 

"  Oh,  no.  I  was  too  anxious  about  you, 
dear." 

Blake  sighed. 

"  I  did  not  know,"  said  he,  "  but  that  you 
might  have  heard  something  about  them." 

"  No,  Basil  dear,  not  a  word.  You  sec,  I 
eirae  on  at  once,  almost  from  a  bed  of  illness, 
to  you,  for  your  sake,  dear  boy." 

Basil  was  silent,  lie  was  longing  to  hear 
something  about  Inez. 

"  I  shall  be  able  to  travel,  dear  mother," 
said  he,  after  a  time,  "  in  a  day  or  two,  and 
Rome  is  horrible  to  me,  after  what  has  hap- 
pened. I  should  like  to  go  to  England  at 
once — to  London — but  I  suppose  on  our  way 
we  ought  to  stop  nt  Paris.  I  want  to  seo 
Kane,  to  tell  him  what  you  have  told  me ;  or, 


ng 


I   ■  ';■ 


■f   I 

,}r\ 

s 

]        l 

:■.}{    [ 

i'      <■■■ 

1 

1 

j; 

\'. 

210 


AN  OI'EX  QUESTION. 


liiin,  wliftlicr  I  ti'll  Lim 


nt  any  rati',  t'» 
that  or  not." 

"  Vcs,"  siii.l  Mm.  V/yvcriio,  "  that  is  no 
more  tliaii  ri;^lit.  I  also  wi.-h  to  go  to  TariB, 
for  I  slioulil  like  very  much  to  sec  poor,  dear 
Clara." 

"I  do  not  know  whether  I  ought  to  tell 
Knne  about  her  or  not,"  euiJ  IJlakc,  doubt- 
fully. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't,"  paid  liis  mother; 
''  and  it  seems  to  me  that  you'll  have  to  bo 
guided  by  circumstances.  At  any  rate,  I  shall 
b;c  her,  and  I  think  it  probable  that  I  shall 
tell  her  nil  that  I've  lirarJ  from  you  about 
poor  Kane.  For,  dear  Hasil,  1  have  come  to 
pity  that  poor  man,  with  his  undeserved  re- 
morse, and  his  ruined  life ;  and  my  sympathy 
with  you  makes  me  look  upon  him  with  some- 
thing of  your  feelings,  Basil  dear." 

"  Kano  is  the  noblest  man  I  Lave  ever  met 
with,"  said  Blake. 

"Poor  fellow  1"  sighed  Mrs.  Wyvomc. 
"And  only  think  that,  while  poor  Clara  is, 
after  all,  really  alive,  she  is  the  same  as  dead 
to  him." 

"  Well,"  said  Blake,  "  the  more  I  think  of 
it,  the  more  I  feel  that  Kane  ought  to  know 
it.  At  the  worst,  it  cannot  bo  so  bad  as  his 
present  belief,  lie  thinks  now  that  ho  is 
little  better  than  a  murderer;  if  he  were  io 
know  that  she  did  not  die,  ho  might  have 
more  peace  of  mind,  even  though  she  could 
uever  be  his." 

"  I  am  quite  of  your  opinion,  Basil  dear, 
quite,"  said  Mrs.  Wyverno. 

They  now  wont  on  to  talk  of  many  things, 
and  more  particularly  about  this  Bessie  Mor- 
daunt,  whoso  exact  position  amid  all  these 
affairs  Mrs.  Wyvernc  was  anxious  to  ascertain. 
She  therefore  made  very  particular  inquiries 
about  her  personal  appearance,  manner,  tone, 
accent,  etc.,  and  gradually  a  light  began  to 
dawn  on  her  mind. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

A     DI  S  CO  VERT. 

Blake  had  reasons  of  his  own  for  keeping 
his  escape  a  secret.  Ue  therefore  did  not  go 
out  of  the  house,  even  though  he  needed  ex- 
ercise, but  quietly  waited  till  he  waa  strong 
enough  to  travel,  lie  did  not  know  but  that 
O'Rourke,  or  rather  Kevin  Magrath,  as  he  now 


believed  him  to  be,  might  still  be  in  tho  city ; 
nor  did  he  know  but  that  ho  might  have  cmis> 
saries  abroad.  For  many  reasons  he  did  not 
wish  Magrath  to  know  that  he  was  alive;  and 
accordingly  ho  determined  to  travel  In  dis,  uiso, 
so  as  to  guard  against  tho  possibility  of  dis- 
covery. This  disguise  was  very  easily  pro- 
cured— a  false  beard,  spectacles,  and  a  priest's 
diess,  being  sudieient  to  make  him  unrecog- 
nizable by  his  own  mother.  In  ii  few  days 
they  set  out,  and  reached  Paris  witliout  any 
further  incident. 

BlaUo  remained  in  hi/>  room  that  day. 
Mrs.  Wyvernc  rested  a  few  hours,  and  then, 
in  tho  afternoon,  went  out  with  the  intention 
of  finding  Clara.  Toward  evening  Hhike  left 
the  hotel,  and  went  to  visit  Kane  liuthvcn. 

Kano  was  alone.  In  answer  to  tho  knock 
a;,  the  door  ho  roared,  "  Come  in  ! "  The 
door  opened,  and  a  man  entered  in  a  priest's 
dress,  for  Blake's  caution  would  not  allow 
him  ns  yet  to  drop  his  disguise.  Kane  rose, 
and  looked  inquiringly  al  his  visitor,  but 
without  tho  slightest  tiji  '  recognition. 
Upon  this  Blake  removed  his  beard  and  spec- 
tacles, and  revealed  to  Kane  the  pale  face  of 
his  friend,  upon  which  were  still  visible  tho 
marks  of  the  sufferings  through  which  he  had 
passed. 

"  (iood  Lord  !  "  cried  Kano  Ruthvcn, 
springing  forward  and  grasping  Blake's  hands 
in  both  of  his.  "  Blake,  old  fellow,  is  it 
really  you  ?     Why,  how  pale  you  are  !  " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  looked  anxious- 
ly ai  Blake,  still  holding  his  hands. 

"  I've  had  a  hard  time  of  it,  old  fellow,'' 
iaid  Blake  ;  "  been  sick,  and  am  hardly  well 
yet." 

"  Ah,  that  accounts  for  your  strange  si- 
lence. Why,  I've  been  at  my  wit's  ends 
about  you.  You  decamped  suddenly,  leaving 
a  crazy,  unintelligible  letter,  and  vanished 
into  midnight  darkness.  Sick,  ah  !  So  that's 
it— but  where  ?  " 

"  You've  just  said  it,"  said  Blake,  solemn- 
ly.    "  I  vanished  into  midnight  darkness." 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"AVell,  perhaps  I'd  better  tell  you  all 
about  myself,  for  I  want  to  get  your  assist- 
ance, old  boy.  You're  the  very  man  I  need 
now,  and  you're  the  only  man." 

"  You  may  rely  upon  mo  to  no  end  of  aa 
extent,  my  boy,"  said  Kane,  earnestly.  "But 
come,  sit  down  now.  We've  given  queer 
confidences  to  one  another  in  this  room,  and 


A   DI.SCOVEIIY. 


«u 


I  tlio  city; 
li;ive  oniis- 
iie  did  not 
,iliv(; ;  and 
ri  di.s,  uist", 

lily  of  dis- 
c:isily  pio- 
id  a  pi'iest'a 
m  iiiirccog- 

II  f(,'\v  days 
itliuiit  any 

that  day. 
,  and  tlion, 
ic  intention 

lilake  Icl't 
aithvcn. 

0  tlio  knoclc 
in!"     Tlio 

in  a  priest's 

1  not  allow 
Kane  rose, 

visitor,  but 
recognition, 
rd  and  spoc- 
palc  face  of 
1  visible  the 
iliicli  he  had 

ic  Ruthvcn, 
tlalic's  hands 
fellow,  is    it 

are'" 

ked  auxious- 
Is. 

old  fellow,"' 
i  hardly  well 

r  strange  si- 
'  wit's  ends 
enly,  leaving 
nd  vauishcd 
i  !    So  that's 

lake,  solenm- 
larkncss." 

tell  you  all 

.  your  assist- 

man  I  need 

ao  end  of  aa 
lestly.  "Cut 
given  queer 
lis  room,  and 


it  looks  as  though  this  would  bo  the  queerest. 
But  you'll  take  sonieihlng,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Thanks— no." 

"  What-not  even  olo  '  " 

"  Well,  perhaps  a  glass  of  alo  wouldn't  be 
unwelcome,"  said  IMako,  taking  his  seat  on 
Iho  sofa.  Kane  at  once  poured  out  the 
draught,  and  lilake  slowly  drank  it.  There- 
upon Kiino  ofTored  a  pipe,  which,  however, 
lilukc  refused. 

'  Kane  now  sat  down,  and  Blako  told  him 
the  whole  story.  Ho  listened  in  a  state  of 
mind  which  was  made  up  of  astonishment 
and  horror,  and  said  not  a  single  word. 

After  this,  Rlako  proceeded  to  give  him 
the  outlines  of  his  mother's  story,  without 
hinting,  however,  at  the  fact  of  Clara's  flight 
and  subsequent  life.  This  he  did  not  feci 
prepared  as  yet  to  divulge.  IFo  merely 
wished  Kane  to  understand  what  he  had 
learned  about  his  own  birth,  and  c.bout  that 
of  Inez;  to  explain  the  character  of  Kev- 
in llagratli,  and  try  identifying  him  with 
O'llourke,  to  disclose  the  motive  which  had 
•animated  his  betrayer. 

The  ciTect  of  all  this  upon  Kane  was  tre- 
mendous. The  last  phase  which  his  opinion 
a'oout  Magrath  had  undergone  was  one  of 
reverence.  lie  had  sought  him  out  as  a  cul- 
prit ;  he  had  pleaded  his  own  cause  before 
him  as  before  a  judge  ;  he  had  humbly  and 
most  gratefully  listened  to  his  acquittal,  and 
had  received  the  grasp  of  his  hand  as  a  sym- 
bol of  the  forgiveness  of  some  superior  being. 
Now,  in  .'he  light  of  Blake's  story,  Kevin  Ma- 
grath stood  at  last  revealed  in  l.is  own  true 
character — a  villain,  cold-blooded,  remorse- 
less, terrible ! 

But  with  this  discovery  there  came  a 
throng  of  thoughts  so  painful  that  he  hardly 
dared  to  entertain  them.  At  once  he  thought 
of  Inez — of  Bessie — now  in  the  power  of  ihis 
man,  who  could  take  them  where  he  wished, 
since  they  had  been  formally  intrusted  to 
him  by  their  best  friends  —  by  Kane  and 
Gwyn — the  husband,  the  brother  ;  thus  hand- 
ing them  both  over  unsuspectingly  into  his 
keeping.  The  terror  of  this  thought  was  too 
much. 

Blake  saw  the  horror  of  Kane's  soul,  and 
understood  at  onco  that  his  story  had  served 
to  arouse  within  his  friend  feelings  and  trou- 
bles that  were  connected  with  himself,  and 
that  some  new  grief  had  arisen  before  Kane 
out  of  the  light  of  this  rcvelatiou.    AYhat  it 


was  he  could  not  conjecture.  He  thought  at 
first  that  Kane's  troubles  poihiips  referred  to 
Clara  ;  and  then  he  thought  that  they  might 
be  connected  with  Inez.  i\>r  already  Blake's 
speculation  \ipon  Magrath's  course  had  niado 
him  think  that  his  next  victim  might  be  Inez. 
And  now  the  sight  of  Kane's  agitation  mado 
him  foel  so  sure  at  last  that  Inez  was  really 
involved,  that  he  was  afraid  to  ask,  for  fear 
that  he  might  learn  the  truth  that  he  dreaded 
to  hear. 

There  was  now  a  long  silcnoe.  Kaeh  had 
much  to  say,  but  did  not  know  how  to  say  it. 
In  the  mind  of  each  there  was  that  which  he 
dreaded  to  make  known  to  the  other. 

Kane  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  Settled  in  Koine  !  for  good — for  good  !  '* 
ho  repeated,  recalling  the  statement  of  Ma- 
grath— "  settled  in  Kome  for  good  t  " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  asked 
Blake,  in  surprise. 

"  It  was  what  I  heard  about  you." 

"  About  me  ?  "  cried  Blake.  "  Who  said 
it?" 

"  What  horrible  irony  !  What  cold-blood- 
ed, remorseless  humor — for  he  had  a  sense  of 
humor — the  humor  of  a  demon  ;  and  I  caa 
imagine  him  enjoying  this,  all  by  himself — 
'  sealed  down — yes,  down — iii,  Home — and  for 
good!''' 

"  There's  only  one  man  that  could  hava 
said  that  of  mo.  What  do  you  mean  ?  Ilavo 
you  seen  him  ?  " 

Blako  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  The 
danger  was  growing  greater,  and  drawing 
nearer  to  Inez. 

"  Only  one  man — yes,"  said  Kane.  "  Of 
course  ;  you  are  right.  Your  O'Rourke  must 
be  Kevin  Magrath,  and  he  was  the  man  that 
said  that  of  you." 

Blake  started  to  his  feet. 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Kane,  solemnly. 

"  You  know  something,  that  you're  hold- 
ing back,"  said  Blake,  in  feverish  excitement. 
"  Magrath  has  been  doing  something  more, 
which  you  know  of;  and  now,  since  I  have 
told  you  his  true  character,  you  are  horrified. 
There  is  danger  abroad,  to  which  friends  of 
yours  are  exposed — are  they  friends  of  mine, 
too  ?  " 

Before  Kane  could  answer,  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door.  Blake  looked  impatiently 
around.  It  was  Gwyn.  Kane  introduced 
them  to  one  another,  and  explained  Gwyn'a 


212 


AN  OPEX  QUESTION. 


1    ) 


position  ns  the  liusbiintl  of  the  young  lady 
whom  he  had  known  as  Bessie  Mordaunt. 

"  Before  I  answer  your  last  question, 
Blake.'  said  Kane,  "let  me  explain  all  this 
liorriblo  business  to  my  brother  here,  fov  I 
assure  you  he  id  as  deeply  concerned  iu  what 
you  ask  about  as  you  yourscli'  arc — perhaps 
moro  so." 

At  this  Blake  regarded  Owyn  with  sad 
curiosity.  Kane's  words  meant  that  ho  was 
implicated,  probably  as  Bessie's  husband,  and 
that  if  the.-c  was  danger  to  Inez,  Bessie  was 
also  involved.  lie  was  now  content  to  ex- 
plain all  to  Gwyn,  so  as  to  have  his  coopera- 
tion in  any  duty  that  might  now  aribo  before 
them,  and  also  to  get  the  benefit  of  any  ad- 
vice which  one  so  deeply  interested  might  be 
able  to  give. 

Gwyn  had  never  expericncel  any  of  those 
altern.itions  of  opinion  about  Kevin  Mngiath 
which  had  been  felt  by  Kane  ;  indeed,  he  had 
not  thought  much  abcut  him,  inasmuch  as  he 
h.id  only  known  him  for  the  last  few  days. 
Dining  that  time  he  had  thought  of  him  as 
rather  an  eccentric,  but  still  a  good  man,  and 
hiid  only  objected  to  him  on  the  ground  tliiit 
he  forned  one  of  those  who  were  taking  Bes- 
sie from  him.  But  now,  ns  he  learned  tlie 
truth  about  'his  man,  and  rpfleeted  that  he 
had  allowed  Bessie  to  go  with  him — thinking 
also  that  Bessie,  ns  one  of  tl;e  Mordaunts, 
might  be  implicated  in  the  f^te  of  those 
whom  ho  yet  bi-lieved  to  bo  her  sisters — a 
great  fear  arose  in  his  heart,  and  ho  sat  look- 
ing at  the  others  in  mute  horror. 

"  lie — he — could  not  harm  lier — he — loves 
lior — slie  always  callcl  him  her  dear  grandpa, 
you  know,"  faltered  vlwyn,  at  last. 

"Is  yovir  wife  with  him?"  asked  Blake, 
rij-'htly  interpreting  tho  mcaring  of  those 
word.i. 

"  Yes,"  said  Kane,  "  and  Inez,  too." 

At  this,  Blake  slid  iiut  a  word.  lie  had 
dreaded  if:  ho  hi"'  expected  it;  but  was 
none  the  lesb  overwhelmed  when  he  actually 
heard  it. 

'■  It's  a  mixed-up  story,  and  the  devil  him- 
gelf  couldn't  have  worked  with  more  patient, 
cold-blooded  craft,"  said  Kane.  "I  didn  t 
like  to  tell  you,  and  I  don't  like  to  now,  but 
Inez  has  had  a  hard  time  of  it." 

"  (Jo  on,"  eaid  Blake,  in  i\  whisper. 

^pon  this,  Kano  told  Blako  tho  whole 
Btoi .  of  Inez — her  imprisonrcen',  her  escape, 
h  T  •    iting  with  hor,  Lis  journey  to  RutLrcn, 


and  Bessie's  departure  to  meet  her  friend, 
followed  by  himself  and  Gwyn.  Some  of  this 
was  news  to  '3wyn,  for  he  had  not  known  be- 
fore tho  name  of  the  man  who  had  en'ripped 
Inez.  It  only  added  to  his  terrors  a'>out  Bes- 
sie. To  Bluke  this  was  nil  too  'oarfully  in- 
toUigible.  The  long,  deep,  patient  plot  was 
cliaractcristic  of  Kevin  M.igrath.  •  lie  chose 
to  lead  his  victims  to  destruction,  as  his 
mother  had  said,  by  a  purely  natural  proces?, 
by  their  own  act  and  consent,  so  that  he  should 
be  himself  free  from  danger.  What  more? 
Had  Inez  and  Bessie  now  g  ine  with  him  vol- 
untarily to  destruction  ?    lie  trcmblei.'  to  hear. 

The  rest  was  soon  told.  The  story  of 
Clara's  grave  in  Rome,  of  tho  removal  of  her 
remains  —  all  was  liorrible.  lie  knew  well 
how  false  it  was.  He  could  not  tell  Kano 
even  then  the  truth  about  Clara,  so  as  to  shoTV 
Kane  and  Gwyn  its  complete  untruth.  Uo 
could  scarcL'ly  use  his  faculties,  and  it  seemed 
as  though  his  strength  of  wind  and  body, 
which  had  been  so  severely  tried  of  late,  was 
about  to  give  way  utterly  under  this  new  blow. 

"  They're  lost ! "  he  cried  at  last.  "  There's 
no  such  grave — in  all — Pome." 

Kane  looked  at  hira  as  though  ho  would 
read  his  soul. 

"  Her  father,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  which 
was  tremuTous  with  agitation  at  a  frightful 
suspicion  which  came  to  him — "  her  father — 
had  her — her  remain?  buried — by  tho  sida 
of  her  moiher — in  the  Catacombs." 

"  The  Catacombs  !  "  groaned  Blake.  •'  0 
God!  Tho  Catacombs!  0  Heavens!  don't 
you  know  wliat  that  means  ?  " 

At  this  both  Kane  and  Gwyn  shuddered. 

"Stop!"  said  Kane,  in  a  hoarse  voice, 
"don't  be  too  fast  —  you  don't  know — sha 
was  taken  away  from  Pire-l;i  Chaise." 

"She  was  not,"  cried  Blako,  who  could 
not  say  any  more. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Kane. 

"  Go  and  ask  tho  keeper — go  to  the  ceme- 
tery now — ask  him  if  any  such  a  removal  has 
taken  place,"  gasped  Blake. 

"By  HcnvcDs,  I  will!"  cried  Kane.  "IIo 
had  persuaded  r.ie,  I  too  was  going  to  tho 
Catacombs,  to  pray  at  her  grave.  I  will  go 
thi.s  very  instant  and  s.-e — "  He  hurried  out 
of  the  room,  and  bangod  tho  door  after  him, 
in  tho  middle  of  hi:*  t-entence. 

Bl.xke  and  Gwyn  sat  thrro  in  silence,  over- 
whelmed by  tho  anguish  of  the  now  fear  that 
had  arisen  in  their  minds.    Of  tho  two,  Ulaks 


; . :  JS 


icr  friend, 

me  of  this 

known  bc- 

cn'rapj^ed 

a'>out  Bes- 

L-arfully  in- 

t  plot  was 

IIu  cliosc 

on,  as   bis 

al  proces?, 

t  he  should 

hat  more? 

h  him  vol- 

Ici.'  to  hear. 

e  story  of 

aval  of  her 

knew  well 

«cl)  Kano 

as  to  show 

itruth.     llo 

d  it  seemed 

and  body, 

of  late,  was 

s  new  blow. 

It.  "There's 

h  ho  would 

voice  which 
t  a  frightful 
her  father — 
by  the  sidd 
1." 

Blake.  "  0 
ivcns  I  don't 

shuddered, 

loarso  voice, 

,  know — sho 

lise." 

;,  who  could 

il  Kane. 

to  the  ceme- 

rcmoval  has 

Kane.  "IIo 
;oiiij»  to  tho 
c.  I  will  (^ 
!  hurried  out 
or  after  hiu, 

silence,  ovor- 
low  fesr  that 
0  two,  Blak« 


A   DISCOVERY. 


213 


was  in  the  deeper  despair,  for  he  knew  all. 
Gwyik's  knowledge  was  iiiiperfcct,  and  iir» 
could  not  help  con'oling  himself  by  the  be- 
lief which  he  had  in  Magrath's  affection  for 
Bessie.  Sl;e  had  always  spoken  nf  hira  in 
fondest  language.  She  rested  in  his  affeetion 
now  with  the  undoubting  confidence  of  a 
child.  Inez  showed  nothing  of  such  a  fcnti- 
tnent.  Bessie  seemed  to  appropiiatcMagrath 
as  her  own — as  if  he  was  her  father.  More- 
over, once  before,  when  he  had  been  able  to 
injure  Bessie,  he  had  spared  her,  and  it  was 
for  Inez  alone  that  he  had  spread  his  snares. 
Out  of  all  this  he  eoiild  not  help  reaching  the 
conclusion  that  Bessie  was  perfectly  safe,  and 
Inez  alone  in  peril. 

That  Inez  wis  in  peril  he  had  no  doubt. 
What  then  ?  AVhat  part  was  Bessie  des- 
tined to  play  ?  Was  her  prcsenoo  any  pro- 
tection to  Inez?  If  so,  why  should  Magrath 
allow  her  to  go  ?  Pcrhap?  Magrath  was 
making  use  of  Bessie  to  woric  o\i;  iiis  will  on 
Inez  tho  more  surely.  Perhaps  he  was  using 
Bessie  as  u  decoy.  I'erhajis — the  thoughts 
.at  came  to  him  now  were  such  ns  filled  hira 
with  horror.  Once  more  tlic  tcn.ble  recol- 
lection came  of  Ruthven  Towers,  of  Bessie 
with  her  frightful  suggestions,  of  that  appall- 
ing moment  when  she  stood  before  him  on 
the  top  of  tho  cliff  and  seemed  a  beautiful 
demon — tlio  Tempter  in  the  form  of  an  angel 
— in  the  form  oi'  one  whom  he  loved  dearer 
than  life.  The  remembrance  was  anguish  ; 
and  once  more  there  went  on  within  him  a 
struggle  of  Koul  sometlung  like  that  which 
had  torn  him  as  lie  fought  down  the  tempta- 
tion. But  the  evil  though*,  once  indulged 
could  not  easily  be  dismissed  nor  could  the 
one  of  whom  ho  had  once  formed  suspicions 
become  ever  again  altogether  free  from  their 
recurrence.  Tlie  thought  which  had  once 
made  him  strike  her  sen.ielcss  was  not  to  be 
destroyed,  nor  could  Bessie  ever  be  immacu- 
late again.  Circum.stanccs  suggested  Ihcm- 
selvet  to  his  mind,  and  tormented  him  by  the 
horrible  coloring  which  tliey  gave  to  her  ao 
tions  :  her  flight  from  Ttuiln  en  Towers  ;  her 
bringing  Inez  once  more  into  Magrath's  power ; 
her  refusal  to  return  to  her  hu.-<band  ;  her  de- 
parture with  Inez  and  Magrath,  and  to  Utime, 
and  to  the  ("alucombs  ;  her  last  woid^  remind- 
ing him  that  he  must  bring  Kani  loo.  Was 
it  only  to  draw  Kane  to  Rome  that  .;ie  wisiied 
liim  to  come  ?  Was  sho  trying  to  make  n 
decoy  of  hiin  f  and,  since  she  had  failed  in 


her  first  temptation,  hal  "ho  resorted  to  one 
which  w.-s  more  insidious  '  And  why  ?  De- 
stroy Kane,  and  Ruthven  Towers  would  bo 
lii.o  ;  destroy  Inez,  and  Mordaunt  Manor  would 
be  hers ! — A  groan  burst  from  hira  in  his 
agony  ;  he  started  to  his  feet,  and  paced  tho 
room  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  Blake. 

But  Blako  himself  had  too  much  to  think 
of  to  give  any  attention  to  his  companion. 
Kane  iiad  gone,  and  ho  knew  what  news  ho 
would  bring  back.  What  then  ?  lie  must 
ftvt.  How?  When?  How  long  was  it  sinco 
they  had  started  for  Rome  ?  Could  lie  over- 
take ther.i  ? 

Clara's  grave  !  The  Catacombs !  Abhor- 
rent, appalling  thought !  The  Catacombs  t 
And  Kevin  Magrath  \ras  now  leading  Iiicr,  to 
that  place  of  horror — the  place  to  which  ho 
had  been  led.  And  Inez  was  going  of  her 
own  free  viil,  as  he  had  gone;  drawn  there 
-"  he  had  been  drawn,  by  an  overpowering 
..  jtivc.  Avarice  had  drawn  him ;  I.ove  was 
drawing  her.  He  had  gone  to  find  the  treas- 
ure of  the  Ctpsars  ;  flie  was  going  to  pray  at 
a  sister's  grave.  What  damnable  art  was  it 
that  enabled  this  man  to  destroy  the  just 
suspicions  of  others? — and,  after  all  that  ho 
had  done  to  Inez,  to  win  tier  confidence,  and 
even  that  of  a  world-worn  man  lil'o  Kane? 
Was  he,  too,  intending  to  go  down  into  tho 
Catacombs  with  Kevin  Magrath?  Wouhl 
not  lie,  too,  wish  (o  pratj  at  tiaras  yravtf 
.\nd  Gwyn  Ruthven!  Was  he,  toT  doomed  • 
What  part  had  his  wife  in  all  tlii-<  ?  Why 
did  filio  leave  her  young  husband  who  loved 
her?  What  had  she  to  do  with  the  Mor- 
daunts  ?  Wliat  connection  was  '.here  be- 
tween her  and  Magrath  ?  His  mother  knew 
that  she  was  not  a  Jlordaun'  or  at  least  not 
of  tho  family  of  Bernal  Mordaunt.  Was  sho 
true,  and  deo.ived;  or  a  deceiver,  falc'c  liko 
Magrath?  Or  w.w  «he  a  decoy  tised  by  Ma- 
grath, though  Innocen,  herself? 

Blake's  tnouglits  ibout  Brpsio  were  bit- 
ter;  and  present  cireum«taners,  combined 
with  wliat  he  had  heard  from  Ciwjn  and  Kane 
about  her,  bad  already  created  suspicions  in 
his  mind  which  he  had  not  cnied  or  dared  to 
expre?>.i.  In  his  own  thoughts  ho  doubted 
lier,  lie  feared  the  worst  about  her.  Thus,  in 
til's  present  terrible  mcmuii,  It  was  Bessie's 
lij.rd  fortune  to  be  the  subje,.!  of  the  gr.iveflt 
and  hir'.est  suspicion,  imt  only  in  tlic  mind 
of  riiA'ie,  but  even  in  that  of  her  husband. 

A'  length,  after  a  long  absiiiee,  Kane  ro- 


k 


»l 


,  i  J 


214 


AX    Oi'KX    QIKSTIOX. 


turned,    nis  face  wore  a  very  strange  expres- 
sion. 

"  Well  ?  "  cried  Blake. 
"  It  is  gone,"  said  Kane,  slowly. 
«'  What ! " 

"It  is  true.  Tier  —  romaius  —  were  ex- 
humed— and  taken  away.  I  saw  the  keeper, 
■who  showed  rae  the  books  of  record — and  I 
— visited  tlic  grave." 

II.o  f.'ing  himself  into  a  chair  by  the  table 
and  buried  his  head  in  Iiis  hands. 

Blake  was  bewildered,  but  a  moment's  re- 
flection explained  all. 

"  It  is  part  of  that  villain's  consummate 
nnd  most  painstaking  stylo  of  action.  Ho 
always  works  in  what  ho  would  call  a  scien- 
tific or  artistic  manner.  Yes,  he  has  certain- 
ly exhumed — soraotliing — and — " 
Kane  started  'ip  and  stared. 
"  This  is  tiic  second  time,"  ho  said,  with 
deep  agitation,  "  that  you  have  spoken  about 
— about  her  —  in  that  tone.  In  Heaven's 
name,  Bl.ike,  what  is  It  ?  What  am  I  to  un- 
derstand?" 

"  Tone  ?  "  said  Blako,  confusedly.  "  I 
•was  not  conscious  of  speaking  in  any  partic- 
ular tone." 

With  a  disappointed  look,  Kane  sat  down 
again. 

"  Wo  must  not,  or  I  must,  and  at  once," 
cried  Blake.     "  Toll  me— havo  I  time  ?  " 
Owyn  and  Kane  looked  at  one  another. 
"  I  tell  you  his  removal  of — of  that — is 
only  to  make  his  work  more  thoroiigh.     He 
•will  iiavc  something  to  show  them." 
Kane  looked  up. 

"  That  is  what  I  mean  l)y  your  tone.  I 
can't  understand  you,  but  I  sec  how  agitated 
you  arc.  I'll  t:i!k  about  it  to-morrow.  liut 
if  you  are  going  to  do  any  thing,  (Jwyn  and  I 
will  help  you.  Magrath  left  for  liomo  yestor- 
d^iy  morning  only,  with  Inez  and  Bessie. 
Gwyn  ■wauled  me  to  leave  with  liiin  to-mor- 
row, but  I  was  going  to  remain  a  week  or 
two.  Still,  as  things  are  now,  wo  ougl'it  all 
of  us  to  leave  by  the  very  next  train." 

"  Will  you  go?— that's  right,"  said  Dlakc. 
"  Yosteniay  morning  ! — and  Magrath  is  prompt 
In  his  aots  always;  but  this  tiino  ho  maybe 
jnorc  leisurely  about  it,  ho  may  not  suspect 
pursuit.,  ile  knows  nothing  of  my  escape. 
No — no — I  think  he  will  go  about  this  work 
leisurely,  an<l  assist  those  of  you  who  wish  to 
— doseend  into  the  Cutacombs — and /)('<ii/ n/ 
ClariCt  tumh. — When  does  the  next  train  go. 


to-night?  r'an't  we  start  at  once?  I  will 
go  now.  I'll  only  stop  a  minute  to  write  a 
few  lines  to  my  mother." 

"  Wait,  Blake,  boy,"  said  Kane,  as  Blake, 
after  these  Incoherent  words,  arose  and 
walked  to  the  door.  "  There's  no  train  till 
rooming.  Wo  had  better  a!'  '--ave  at  tho 
same  time.  You  can  write  youi  letter  hero, 
or  you'll  have  time  to  go  and  sec  your  moth- 
er yourself" 

"  No ;  I  w^oii't  go  and  see  her,"  said 
Blake.  "  She  would  mako  objections,  and 
all  that,  or  insist  on  coming  with  me.  No. 
I'll  write  her,  and  if  you  can  find  some  one  to 
take  it  to  her  address,  I'll  be  obliged." 

Kane  now  ofl'cred  Blake  some  writing-ma- 
terials, and  he  wrote  very  hurriedly  the  fol- 
lowing letter : 

"Dear  Motiikii:  I  have  hoard  the  very 
worst.  Inez  has  fallen  into  the  hands  of 
Kevin  Miigrath,  who  has  taken  her  to  liome. 
You  know  what  that  means.  I  am  going 
back  there  by  the  lirst  train  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, in  the  faint  hope  of  being  able  to  save 
her.  If  you  have  any  news  about  Clara,  you 
had  better  come  on  also.  Kane  Uuthven 
and  his  brother  (Jwyn  are  guing  .to  accompany 
me.    I  have  said  nothing  to  Kane  about  Clara. 

"  If  you  come  to  Rome  you  will  find  me, 
or  hear  of  mo  at  the  old  lodgings. 

''  Your  ull'ectiunale  son, 
"  Basil." 


CILVrTKU   LII. 

CL  A  II  A     M  oil  I)  A  i;  NT. 

Sins.  Wyvkunk  had  gone-  out  fur  the  pur- 
pose of  finding  Clara,  and  wont  at  oneo  to 
tho  place  which  had  been  her  last  address. 
It  was  an  ordinary  house,  which  was  occupied 
by  some  Sisters  of  Charity,  uuioiig  whom  Cla- 
ra had  cast  in  her  lot.  She  hoprd  to  find  her 
here  yet ;  and,  on  asking  for  hor,  she  found, 
to  hor  great  relief,  that  she  was  within. 

Mr:i.  Wyvernu's  story  to  Blake  has  already 
shown  that  Clara  was  not  dead,  as  Kane  had 
Huppopod.  To  Kano  iho  thought  of  hor  being 
actually  alivo  was  not  adinissililo.  Tho  mem- 
ory of  that  one  great  tragedy  obscured  ell 
olso,  and  ho  was  incapable  of  seriously  cnn« 
^icti-ring  that  theory  which  Blake  had  sug- 
pestoil,  namoly,  tliat  (~'lara  had  escaped  as  ho 
hinisolf  hnd.     Hut,  to  Mrs.  Wyvorne,  tho  liv- 


ij,     , 


»     I  will 
to  write  a 

a^  Blake, 
ro30  ami 
train  till 
vo  at  the 
L'ttcT  here, 
our  inotli- 

iOr,"    said 

lions,  mid 

me.     No. 

oiiie  one  to 

1." 

riting-ma- 
ily  Iho  fol- 

]  tlic  Tcry 

!  liiinds  of 

r  to  Uonic. 

am   going 

)rvow  nioru- 

Llo  to  snvo 

t  Clara,  you 

le   Kiithveii 

taceonipany 

about  Clara. 

rill  find  itic, 

ale  son, 
"  lUsiL." 


for  tlio  pur- 
;  nt  onco  to 
ast  addrosii. 
las  oocupieil 
f,'  whom  Cla- 
d  to  find  her 
',  hIio  found, 
vi(hit). 

I  \inA  already 
iH  Kano  had 
of  her  bcin^ 
The  mom- 
obscured  all 
'rioiisly  con- 
lii!  Iiiid  Bu^;- 
xcapcd  BA  ho 
'me,  tho  liv- 


CLARA   MORDAUNT. 


m$ 


ing  Clara  was  the  most  familiar  thought  in 
the  world ;  and,  what  to  Kane  was  supernat- 
ural, to  her  was  in  the  highest  degree  nat- 
ural. 

She  was  at  once  admitted,  and  in  a  few 
moments  Clara  herself  made  her  appearance, 
and  with  a  cry  of  joy  caught  her  in  lier  arms, 
and  kissed  ner  again  and  again,  uttering  at 
tho  same  time  many  exclamations  of  affection, 
of  gratitude,  and  of  delight.  Mrs.  Wyverne 
herself  was  moved  by  such  emotion  on  the 
part  of  Clara,  ami  was  rejoiced  to  perceive 
these  signs  of  a  warm  human  sympathy  and 
a  tender  loving  nature  in  one  who  might  have 
been  expected  to  have  grown  indifferent  to 
worldly  tics. 

Clara  took  her  to  her  own  chamber,  in- 
forming her  that  in  this  house  they  were  less 
strict  in  their  regulations  than  in  other  places, 
and  that  .arious  privileges  were  allowed  of 
intimate  association  with  friends  or  relatives. 
It  was  a  plainlj'-furnished  room,  with  a  single 
window  looking  out  upon  tho  stnet.  Here 
they  were  alone  together,  and  could  say  what 
they  wislied  without  interruption. 

Clara  was  dressed  as  a  Sister  of  Charity, 
and  tlie  simple  costume  served  in  her  ca?e  to 
give  an  additional  charm  to  her  graceful  fig- 
ure, and  to  the  beautiful  and  siiil  youthful 
face.  She  had  an  extraordinary  resemblance 
to  Inez,  having  generally  tho  same  features 
and  tho  same  family  peculiarity.  But,  with 
Clara,  there  was  a  deeper  melancholy  visible ; 
in  her  eyes  and  in  her  face  there  were  tlic 
manifest  traces  of  Icng  and  severe  suffering. 
Inez,  after  her  escape  from  prison,  and  while 
just  arising  from  a  bed  of  sickness,  thin  and 
pale  from  suffering,  had  seemed  to  him  tho 
counterpart  of  his  lost  Clara;  but  the  real 
<'larahad  in  her  face  a  sadness  sueh  as  Inez 
had  never  shown,  for  her  sufferings  had  been 
deeper,  and  more  intense,  and  more  pir- 
lonpcu. 

At  first  the  conversation  was  taken  up 
with  anxious  incpiiries  about  one  another's 
health,  and  questions  about  what  each  h.id 
been  doing  since  their  lust  meeting.  Clara 
professed  to  have  lived  her  usual  life,  but 
Mrs.  Wyverne  was  more  fiaiik;  and,  begin- 
ning with  the  recital  of  her  own  troubles,  she 
at  length  went  on  by  degrees  to  unfold  all 
tliat  series  of  events  which  had  been  going 
on,  and  with  which  Chira  herself  was  so  inti- 
mately conneeteil.  Mrs.  AVyverno  did  this 
cautiously  and  gradually,  and  now  for  the 


first  time  Clara  learned  the  full  measure  of 
her  own  rights,  the  extent  of  her  wrongs,  tho 
sufferings  of  those  near  relatives  of  hers 
whom  she  had  not  seen  since  childhood,  but 
whose  names  and  fortunes  now  awakened  an 
intense  interest;  and,  finally,  the  niachina- 
tions  of  Magralh,  which  had  first  been  direct- 
ed against  herself,  and  of  late  had  turned 
against  her  sister  Inez.  All  this  awakened 
deep  emotion  within  her,  but  this  was  sur- 
passed  by  the  feelings  that  were  aroused  when 
Mrs.  ■\Vyvernc  brought  forward  the  n;cntion  of 
Kane  Ruthven.  Kane  Ruthven  was  the  inti- 
mate  friend  of  Mrs.  Wyverne's  son.  That  son, 
just  escaping  from  unparalleled  dangers,  was 
even  now  about  to  visit  Kane  Ruthven.  This 
Kane  Ruthven,  also,  her  husband,  had  been 
subject  to  remorse  for  years  on  her  account,  and 
was  still  mourning  over  her  as  dead.  All  thia 
came  out,  and  Claia  listened  wiih  intense 
emotion,  pouring  forth  a  torrent  of  eager 
questions,  and,  forgetting  every  thing  else, 
evinced  an  insatiable  longing  to  know  every 
thing  that  Mrs.  Wyverne  could  tell  about 
I  him. 

On  former  interviews  Clara  had  been  mere- 
ly a  despairing  mourner,  weary  of  the  world, 
seeking  solace  only  in  tho  lilo  which  she  had 
adopted,  reticent  about  her  past,  shunning 
every  allusion  to  it.  Now,  the  revelations 
which  Mrs.  AVyverne  brought  her  broke  down 
all  her  reticence,  and  poured  over  her  soul  a 
Hood  of  memories  which  overwhelmed  her. 
It  was  not  the  fact  that  Kane  Ruthven  was 
alive,  not  the  fact  that  he  was  living  in  Paris 
that  impressed  her,  but  rather  the  fact  that 
ho  was  suffering,  and  for  her ;  that  he  was 
bearing  thi;  load  nf  remorse,  and  enduring 
these  stings  of  conscience,  on  her  account ; 
the  fact  that  he  so  clung  to  his  uniorios  of 
her,  that  he  was,  even  now,  living  a  life  which 
was  arranged  with  reference  to  her,  and  that 
ho  was  associating  her  in  all  his  thoughts  n  ith 
the  angels  of  heaven. 

All  her  reserve  broke  d(  wn,  and  she  was 
now  eager  to  tell  Mrs.  Wyverne  her  own 
story,  eager  to  ask  Mrs.  Wyverne's  advico 
about  what  she  ought  to  do.  Tho  story 
which  she  had  to  tell  referred  to  that  event 
already  narrated  to  Blake  by  Kiiiie,  but,  as  it 
regarded  it  from  her  point  of  view,  it  may  bo 
repeated  here. 

She  began  by  describing  her  earl  est  rec- 
olleelions,  which  were  vague  reniiniscencea 
of  splendid  homos  iu  England  and  in  Italy. 


I* 


ni 


210 


AN   OrEN"   (jUKSTION. 


11  : 


I! : 


fit  i 


1 


Then  c;imo  the  death  of  her  mother  mid  the 
loss  of  lier  fatlicr  ;  tlicn  a  home  among  stran- 
gers, ciulinp;  witli  lier  departure  to  Paris,  and 
her  eiitraiiee  into  a  boarding-school.  Here 
plic  wan  alloweil  unusual  liberties,  hceanic 
nequainted  with  virions  people,  and  at  length 
fell  in  with  Kane  Iluthvcn,  and  consented  to 
marry  him. 

"  But  oh  !  dear  Mra.  Wyvcrne,"  she  con- 
tinued, "you  may  imagine  what  a  child  I  was, 
what  a  poor  little  child,  when  I  tell  you  that, 
in  p'lcking  up  my  small  valise  to  fly,  I  actually 
put  in  a  doll — I  was  passionately  fond  of  doU.-i 
— and  a  multitude  of  little  scraps  of  silk,  and 
odds  and  ends  of  colored  ribbons.  Oh,  dcii- 
Mrs.  Wyvcrne,  I  could  cry  over  the  rcincm- 
brance  of  my  utter  childishness  and  inno- 
cence, if  it  were  not  that  I  have  other  rac  no- 
rics  that  are  too  deep  for  tears. 

"  Well,  we  were   married,  and    then  we  j 
travelled  everywhere.     We  went  to  Italy,  and  j 
finally  came  back  to  Paris  through  Germany.  I 
Wo  had  been  gone  about  three  months,   I 
think.      Those    throe   months   were   perfect 
Lappino.->s.     Kane  was  passionately  fond  of 
me,  and  I  was  far  happier  than  ever  I  had 
been  in  all  my  life.     His  love  was  perfect  ad- 
oration.    He  Ecemed  not  to  havo  oiie  single 
thought  that  was  not  about  me ;  and,  as  for 
myself,  I  idolized  him. 

"  Well,  wo  came  back  to  Paris,  and  lived 
there  for  several  months.  We  enjoyed  life 
to  the  very  uttermost.  Day  followed  day, 
and  week  followed  week,  and  month  fullowod 
month,  so  rapidly  thiit  I  waH  amazed  at  the 
quick  flight  of  time. 

"  Well,  one  day,  there  came  a  break  in  all 
this.  I  learnwl  that  my  guardian  had  cast 
nio  ofT.  I  did  not  know  av.y  thing  about  my 
inheritance.  I  only  thought  it  was  a  very, 
very  cruel  thing  for  him  to  do.  lie  wrote 
Kane  a  torrilil'  'iCtter,  and  Kane  felt  cut  to 
the  heart,  thouj^li  he  tried  as  hard  a.''  he  could 
to  hide  from  me  how  he  felt  it,  but  I  could 
easily  perceive  if.  I  know  by  that  time  every 
varying  expression  of  his  noble  and  lordly 
face,  anil  every  intonation  of  his  voice  so  well, 
that  any  change  was  at  onco  perceptible. 
However,  ho  had  great  power  over  himself, 
and  in  a  short  time  he  s\iccccded  in  regaining 
his  former  flow  of  epirits. 

"  At  last  there  came  one  memorable  day. 
Ho  had  pone  out  early  in  the  morning.  He 
came  back  at  about  ten  o'clock — wo  then 
breakfasted.     I  noticed  a  certain  t-ouble  in 


his  face,  which  he  was  trying  to  hide  by  as- 
sumed gayety.  I  tried  to  quell  my  anxiety, 
but  at  length  could  restrain  myself  no  longer, 
and  I  went  over  to  him,  and  put  my  arms 
around  him.  He  pressed  iiie  close  to  his 
heart  in  silence. 

" '  Ob,  my  dear  love  I '  I  asked,  '  what  is 
it?' 

"  '  Nothing,'  said  he. 

"  I  then  implored  him  to  tell  me,  but,  in- 
stead of  doing  so,  he  gently  witiidrcw  him- 
self, and  went  away,  and  sat  down  by  a  win- 
dow in  pilcnce.  At  puch  apparent  coldness 
as  this,  I  was  quite  overcome.  'O  Kane!'  I 
cried,  'has  it  come  to  thi.'<! — has  it  come  to 
tills!'  At  this  he  started,  and  leaving  his 
acat  he  came  over  to  me,  and  stood  looking 
at  me  with  a  mild,  sweet,  loving,  and  com- 
l>assionate  smile — looking  like  some  protect- 
ing divinity;  yet  still,  behind  all  this,  I  cotdd 
not  help  seeing  that  lurking  cxprc.s?ion  of 
trouble 

"  '  Not  love  you  ! '  he  said — '  love  I '  and 
then  he  gave  a  little  laugh.  'My  darling  I' 
he  continued,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  '  I  do  not 
believe  that  there  are  any  other  men  in  the 
worM  just  now  who  know  what  it  is  to  lovo, 
as  1  know  it.' 

"At  this,  I  rose,  and  threw  myself  in  hi.^ 
arms,  and  cried.  Tears  wore  in  his  eyes,  too 
— and  those  tears  made  mo  cry  all  the  more. 
Hut  at  last  he  regained  his  composure,  and 
began  to  talk  to  me  again.  Hi,-  then  told  me 
all — the  whole  truth.  He  iiiforuioil  me  that, 
when  wo  married,  he  had  a  certain  amount 
of  money — that  hi.s  lovo  wa."  so  great  thai  he 
determined  to  make  my  life  nothing  but  hap- 
piness. How  well  he  had  done  that,  I  have 
lold  you.  Itiit,  in  doing  this,  he  had  spent 
every  thing — and  on  that  morning  l:e  was 
destitute,  liesidcs  this,  he  was  in  debt,  (\vdit- 
ors  were  persecuting  him — even  the  landlord 
joined  with  them,  nnd  had  threatened  to  turn 
us  out.  We  were  to  be  turned  out  into  the 
streets — or,  rather,  I  was  to  be  turned  out 
alone,  for  he  was  in  danger  of  arrest  and  im- 
prisonment. 

"  I'pon  this,  I  was  eager  to  know  what  ho 
proposed  to  do,  antl  in  an  anguish  of  fear  1 
asked  him  if  he  was  thinking  of  leaving  me. 

"  '  Never,  never !  Leave  you,  darling  ? — 
never,  never  1 '  he  cried,  with  wild  impetuosity. 
'  Never — it  all  drpeiids  upon  you — if  you  will 
come  with  me  where  1  go.' 

"'Ohl'I  cried,  '  why  do  you  talk  «of— 


(■|,VI!\    MoUD.M'NT. 


217 


'  nliat  in 


ofl  if  I   woiiMiit  go  u!l  over  the  woiUl  with 
you.' 

"  At  tlii?,  lie  looked  at  nie  with  so  strange 
an  expression  tliat  I  actually  felt  fiigliteiu'd. 
For  a  lonp  time  lio  regardoii  ine  in  silciioo — 
I  was  bewildered  anil  te-rifieJ,  and  didn't 
know  what  to  tliitil;. 

"  'Over  the  worM,'  he  said,  in  a  whisper, 
bending  down  lower,  and  Btill  holdiiig  me  in 
his  arms — '  over  the  world? — 0  my  darling! 
— I  know  you  would  do  that — but  would  you 
do  more  than  that?' 

"  '  Do  more  than  that  ?  '  I  faltered. 

"  '  Would  you — would  you  ?  '  he  said  ;  and 
tiicn  he  hesitated. 

'"Would  I  what?'  I  asked,  breathlessly. 

"  He  bent  his  head  down  lower  yet,  and 
whispered  in  my  ear: 

"  '  J)arli)>ff .'  xroulfi  yon  go  telth  me  out  of 
the  Korld! ' 

"0  dear  Mra.  Wyverne!  how  can  I  tell 
you  the  uniittorahle  horror  that  there  was  in 
that  question?  The  whisper  hissed  itself 
through  me  ;  and  every  nerve  and  every  fibre 
tingled  and  thrilled  at  its  awful  meaning.  I 
felt  paralyzed.  I  did  not  say  one  single  word. 
He,  on  his  part,  went  talking  on  in  a  strange, 
wild  way,  and  was  too  intent  on  framing  some 
argimieiit  for  persuading  me  to  notice  the 
perfect  ngotiy  of  fear  that  thi.s  proposal  Iiad 
given  me. — To  die !  Oh  !  to  die !  and  I  so 
young !  and  when  I  had  been  so  happy  !  This 
was  my  only  thought.  Iicmcniber  what  a 
rhild  I  was.  And  to  die !  and  so  suddenly  ! 
<th,  horror  of  hor/ors!  And  worse,  to  admin- 
ister death  to  myself  1  O  dear,  dear  Mrs. 
Wyvcrne  I  how  can  I  possibly  tell  you  the 
t.tter  anguish  of  such  a  thought? — Well,  he 
went  on  speaking  more,  but  I  didn't  hear  a 
word,  or,  at  least,  I  didn't  understand,  you 
know,  for  I  was  really  quite  stupefied.  Itut  I 
gathered,  in  a  vague  way,  from  what  he  said, 
that  he  had  all  along  been  looking  fornurd  to 
this,  and  that  ho  had  decided  what  to  do. 
For  himself,  he  was  calm;  but  he  felt  uncer- 
tain about  me,  and  had  not  dared  to  mention 
it  before.  He  h.id  gone  out  tliat  morning  to 
buy  the  ilrug  that  would  furnish  the  deadly 
draught.  This  ho  showed  me.  The  sight  of 
it  had  the  same  cfTcct  on  me  which  the  sight 
of  the  gallowH  may  have  on  the  condemned 
etiminal.  Ilut  he  was  tno  much  taken  up 
with  his  own  thoughts  to  notice  my  horror ; 
•nd  so  he  went  on,  working  himself  up  into 
an  eloquent  rhapsody — in  which  lie  dcscrilied 


the  joys  of  the  spiritual  Flate,  and  of  the  world 
beyond  the  grave.  l!ut  oh!  his  words  fell 
only  upon  the  dull,  dead  ears  of  a  terrified 
and  iianie-strieken  girl. 

"  At  length  he  made  a  proposal  that  each 
should  jjour  it  out  for  the  other,  or  I  made  it 
in  my  despair— I  forget  which.  He  himself 
was  in  a  very  peculiar  mood  by  this  time; 
he  was  nt  once  so  absorbed  in  the  i)iirpose 
over  which  he  had  brooded  so  long,  and  at  the 
same  time  so  taken  up  with  his  own  thoughts, 
that  I  saw  the  utter  uselessness  of  any  thing 
like  remonstrance.  I  only  thought  of  evasion 
—  not  of  resistance;  so  I  caught  a*  once  at 
the  plan  of  pouring  out  a  draught  for  myself, 
and  in  this  way  I  hoped  to  escape  this  terrible 
fate  which  he  was  medititing  for  me.  So  I 
got  up,  and  stammered  something  about  get- 
ting the  glasses.  He  smiled,  and  said  nothing, 
but  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair.  His  face 
was  turned  from  me.  With  a  trembling  hand 
I  poured  out  some  wine  in  a  glass,  and.  taking 
this  in  one  liand,  I  took  two  empty  glasses  in 
the  other,  and  then  went  b.ick  very  softly ; 
stooping  down,  I  put  the  glass  of  wine  under 
the  place  where  I  had  been  sitting  on  the 
sofa.  Then  I  handed  him  the  empty  glasses  ; 
he  took  them  with  an  abstracted  air  and  an 
enthusiastic  smile.  Then  he  maile  me  sit  down. 

"  Then  he  poured  out  the  draught  in  cuch 
glass,  and  handed  one  to  me.  1  took  it — my 
hand  trembling  so  that  I  eculd  scarcely  hold 
it,  and  looked  at  him  as  he  sat  there  with  his 
eyes  turned  toward  me;  but  his  eyes  seemed 
fixed  on  vacancy,  with  that  same  excited  anil 
abstracted  look  which  I  have  already  men- 
tioned. 

"  '  Now,'  saiil  he,  after  some  silence — 
'now — my  own  darling — wc  both  hold  in 
our  hands  the  means  of  escape  from  the 
darkness  of  poverty  and  tliv,  sorrow  of  life ! 
Come,  l(t  us  both  drink  together,  and  so  pass 
away.  When  I  raise  my  glass,  do  you  raise 
yours,  and  thus  we  shall  drink  together,  and 
—die !  • 

"  At  this  a  fresh  anguish  of  despair  rushed 
thmugh  me.  I  was  filled  with  horror,  and  in 
that  last  moment  of  agony  a  sudden  thought 
came  to  me. 

'"What  is  the  matter,  my  darling? '  be 
asked,  noticing  my  agitatimi. 

"  '  Oh,  hark  !  oh,  listen  ! '  I  cried.  'There 
is  some  one  at  the  door.' 

"  Ho  started,  and  rose  and  went  to  (lie 
door.     The  moment  his  back  was  turned,  I 


A        ^ 


,  I 


218 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION. 


linstilj'  clmnj^ed  tlio  gla^s  of  poison  for  that 
of  wino  which  was  umlcr  mo.  l!y  the  time 
that  I  had  done  tlii.«,  he  had  come  baclj. 

"  '  You  arc  excited,'  lie  said.  '  Tiievo  is 
no  one  tlierc' 

"  Willi  thoPC  words  he  resumed  his  scat. 
On  hi3  iioblo  face  I  saw  a  glow  of  lofty  en- 
thusiasm, and,  as  he  fastened  his  eyes  on  me, 
they  glon'cd  with  unutterable  tenderness. 
There  was  also  the  moisture  of  tears  in  his 
eyes,  and  there  was  a  smile  on  his  lips,  lie 
held  his  glass  in  his  left  hand,  while  his  right 
hand  took  mine.  I  noticed  at  that  awful  mo- 
HK-'nt  how  warm  his  hand  was,  and  how  steady. 
It  was  the  warmth  and  steadiness  of  perfect 
coolness  and  perfect  health  ;  but  ray  band 
was  as  cold  as  ice,  and  clammy,  and  tremu- 
lous, for  I  was  shuddering  and  shivering  in 
excitement  and  fear.  Wo  sat  in  this  way  for 
a  'loment  or  two,  and  then  he  said ; 

"  '  Now ! ' 

"  Ho  r;iispd  the  glass  to  his  lips.  I  did 
the  same.  \Vc  both  drank  at  the  same  time. 
Each  of  us  dr\nk,  and  oh,  how  difForcnt  in 
each  case!  Then  we  put  down  the  glasses, 
nnd  still  sat  tlv^re  in  the  same  position,  llow 
long  we  s.it  I  cannot  tell,  for  my  brain  was  in 
a  wliirl,  and  a  dark  horror  was  over  me.  I 
had  escaped  death,  but  I  was  losing  him  who 
was  dearer  than  life.  With  my  woman's  love 
and  yearning  over  him,  there  was  a  child's 
panic  fc:ir  of  death  and  its  accompaniments. 
At  ienglh  his  grasp  began  to  rolux.  He  fell 
forward  against  me.  I  gave  a  shriek.  I  had 
a  wild  idea  of  going  fur  hel.i,  ,  .<1  a  wilder 
idea  of  flight;  and  so,  with  my  nsincl  almost 
in  a  state  of  ('elirium,  I  rushed  from  the 
room,  and  fled  1  hardly  knew  where. 

"  I  remember  getting  lodgings,  nnd  writ- 
ing to  you,  the  only  friend  I  had  in  all  tho 
world,  and  you  came,  and  you  nursed  nic, 
but  I  have  never  told  you  tliia  till  now." 

Clara  paused  here  for  some  time,  and  at 
length  resumed : 

"Well,  dear,  you  know  how  I  was.  Think- 
ing only  of  Katie's  death,  I  gave  myself  up 
to  despair.  Life  had  lost  all  its  value,  and  I 
on\y  wished  to  find  some  occupation  where  I 
jnigiit  also  have  the  consolations  of  religion. 
This  I  found  among  those  dear  Sisters  aniorg 
whom  I  came  to  live  and  to  w(uk. 

"  Well,  now,  dear,  I  mu-'t  rr.enlion  ii  dis- 
covery that  I  niaile.  It  was  about  a  year 
after  this  event.  I  was  nursing  at  a  lios- 
pilal,  uiid  by  the  merest  accident  I  heard  of 


tho  case  of  a  man  who  had  been  poisoned 
nnd  sent  here.  The  poison  was  too  weak,  or 
the  amount  was  too  small,  and  the  work  was 
not  done.  I  was  struck  by  this  very  forcibly, 
and  on  inquiry  found  out  tho  date  and  tho 
place.  It  was  tho  date  of  our  tragedy,  and 
the  place,  too.  They  had  not  found  out  his 
name,  but  I  know  that  this  patient  could  be 
no  other  than  Kane.  He  had  recovered  I  Uo 
had  gone  away  I  lie  had  not  died  !  He  was 
alive !  I  cannot  possibly  convey  to  you, 
dea',  the  slightest  idea  of  my  feelings  at  such 
an  ostonishing  discovery. 

"After  that  I  was  in  a  constant  state  of 
watchfulness,  I  was  on  tho  lookout  for  him 
everywhere.  Years  passed,  however,  and  I 
never  saw  him.  At  last  I  gave  him  up,  nnd 
concluded  that  he  liad  gone  away,  though, 
after  all,  I  could  imt  help  indulging  the  hopo 
of  meeting  him  again.  You  have  mentioned 
his  strange  fancies  about  me,  dear.  You 
now  understand,  and  I  can  understand  ;  wo 
met  by  chance.  He  had  come  back  here. 
Tlie  first  time  wag  at  Xotre-Dame,  the  next  in 
the  rail-ears,  the  next  on  the  street.  On  each 
of  those  occasions  I  was  as  much  affected  as 
he  was.  The  first  meeting  showed  mo  that 
he  was  alive,  tliougli  I  knew  not  where  to 
find  him.  This  thought  filled  my  mind  to  tho 
exclusion  of  every  thing  else.  The  second 
meeting  oidy  confirmed  this  thouglit,  nnd 
made  mo  think  also  that  he  ktiew  of  my  es- 
cape from  the  fate  that  he  had  prepared  forme. 

"  But  oh  !  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  suf- 
fered. I  had  grown  reconciled  to  this  life. 
The  di.scovcry  that  ho  was  alive  destroyed  all 
my  peace  of  mind.  It  brought  back  all  my 
past.  Above  all,  I  was  filled  with  shamo  at 
the  thought  of  the  deceit  of  whicli  I  had  been 
guilty.  I  liatl  saved  my  life  by  a  cowardly 
trick.  He  had  gone,  in  good  faith,  to  death, 
ns  he  supposed  ;  and  had  thought  that  I  loved 
him  well  enough  to  go  with  him.  Hut  I  did 
not.  I  was  a  coward,  nnd  in  my  terror  I  had 
deceived  him.  1  dared  not  meet  him.  I  was 
t(M'riliejl  at  the  sight  of  him,  even  though  I 
longed  to  tell  him  all.  One  evening  I  saw 
him  seated  in  tho  street  in  front  of  a  ca/e, 
and  I  caught  his  look.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
ho  was  regarding  mo  with  a  stern,  reproach- 
ful glance.  1  almost  fainted  in  utter  anguish; 
but  I  managed  to  reach  my  home.  At  an- 
other  time  I  saw  him  at  a  distance.  I  fol- 
lowed him,  with  a  vague  idea  of  accosting 
him.     1   I'ollowud   him   to   tho  cemetery  of 


(inINt;    TO   niAY   AT   CLAUA'S   GHAVE. 


sia 


PcTo-la-Cliai.-c,  ami  waliliod  liim  for  liouri).  I 
saw  him  kiicdiiij^  brfoio  a  tomb.  I  woiidoi'cd 
very  miidi,  ami  looked  at  him  for  u  long  limc 
from  a  hiding-place.  At  last  I  ventured  fortli 
a  little,  and  lie  looked  up  and  saw  me.  I 
shrank  back  again,  and  was  so  tiM-rificd  that 
I  remained  there  all  night  long.  This  ex- 
plains to  you  all  about  our  meetings,  which 
lie,  poor  fellow  !  thought  were  Bupcrnatural ; 
'and  you  see,  too,  dear,  and  you  can  under- 
stand, the  reason  why  I  was  too  frightened  to 
make  myself  known  to  him. 

"  But  oh  !  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  own 
sense  of  dishonor — if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
feeling  which  I  had  that  I  had  deceived  him, 
and  that  ho  would  never  forgive  if,  liow  gladly 
I  would  have  told  him  all  I  Rut  I  dared  not. 
I  was  afraid.  I  knew  so  well  his  lofty  na- 
ture, and  remembered  so  well  his  proud  con- 
fidence in  me.  And  now,  even  now,  0  dear 
Mrs.  ■\Vyvcriic  ! — even  now — even  now — how 
can  I  even  now  let  him  know  ?  Will  he  not 
utterly  despise  me?  lie  feels  ntuorse  now 
for  an  imaginary  crime,  and  I  long  to  save 
him  from  this  ;  but  how  can  I,  when  to  do  so 
will  only  change  his  feelings  from  remorse  to 
contempt  ?  Oh,  how  I  wish  that  I  knew  what 
to  do  ! " 

Jlrs.  Wyverne  wondered  very  much  at 
Clara's  language,  not  so  much,  indeed,  at  the 
feelings  which  she  expressed  about  what  she 
called  her  cowardice  as  at  the  evident  long- 
ings which  she  possessed  after  a  husband 
from  whom  her  vows  must  have  separated 
her.  Xor,  indeed,  could  she  help  mentioning  it. 

"  Ah,  Mrs.  Wyverne,"  said  Claia,  "  tlierc 
IS  something  yet  to  bo  told.  I  am  not  alto- 
gether a  Sister.  1  found  out  that  he  had  not 
died  in  less  than  a  year  after  I  had  joined 
them,  and  this  always  inlluenccd  my  position 
here.  For  a  married  woman  cannot  become 
a  Pistcr  without  the  formal  consent  of  her 
husband,  and  in  my  ease  this  was  out  of  the 
question.  Ilesides,  niy  case  was  so  very  pe- 
culiar, you  know.  I  entered  their  house  with 
the  full  intention  of  bcc^  ning  a  Sister,  for  I 
thought  ho  was  dead,  but  the  discovery  that 
he  was  not  prevented  my  taking  the  vows. 
But  the  Sisters  knew  that  I  had  come  with 
the  intention  of  doing  so,  under  the  impres- 
sion that  I  was  a  widow.  They  knew  my  cir- 
cumstances, they  all  pitied  mo,  and  so  they 
have  made  allowances  for  me,  and  pcrniiltcd 
luc  to  remain." 

Tliia  in  forma  Hon  set  Mrs.  Wyverne  ihinking. 


CIlAl'TEIl  LIII. 

GOI.SG   TO   ril.iV    AT   CLAKA'd    CRAVE. 

Bkrsie  and  Inez  wore  in  a  eomfortabla 
apartment  in  an  ancient  house  in  Rome.  The 
ancient  house  was  tliat  one  which  had  been 
described  to  Blake  as  having  been  recently 
obtained  ;  but  the  appearance  of  the  interior 
gave  indications  of  a  long  occupation.  The 
room  in  which  tliey  were  was  filled  with  an- 
tique furniture,  and  looked  out  upon  a  court- 
yard, surrounded  by  venerable  walls,  with  a 
grotesque  fountain  in  the  midst. 

"  What  a  very  particularly  quaint  old 
house  this  is,  Inez  darling,  isn't  it  ?  and  did 
you  ever  see  such  a  dear  old  place — so  an- 
cient— so  stately — such  massive  walls  ?  And 
sure  there's  a  kind  of  solemnity  about  it  that's 
fairly  delightful,  so  it  is." 

"  Yes,"  said  Inez ;  "  I  really  never  saw 
such  a  perfect  reproduction  of  the  romance 
of  the  middle  ages." 

"  Sure,  but  it  isn't  romance,  then,  that 
I'm  thinking  of, at  all  at  all, Inez  darling;  but 
it's  religion,  so  it  is.  I  don't  feel  like  being 
in  a  feudal  castle  ;  but  much  more  like  being 
in  some  sweet,  placid  convent,  where  I'm  set- 
tled for  the  rest  of  my  days.  And  sure  and 
it  wouldn't  take  much  to  make  mo  now  con- 
sent to  be  made  a  nun  of.  and  take  the  veil 
on  the  spot,  so  it  wouldn't." 

"  That  would  be  rather  too  rash  a  thing, 
Bessie  dear,"  said  Inez,  with  a  smile,  "  for 
a  bride  hardly  out  of  her  honey-moon." 

"  Sure,  and  didn't  I  run  away  from  poor 
old  Gwynnic  for  the  sake  of  friendship?  and 
mightn't  I  run  away  from  him  again  for  the 
sake  of  r'digion?" 

"  Not  very  likely,  I  fancy,  dear,"  saiil 
Inez,  who  was  much  amused  at  such  an  idea 
entering  the  head  of  so  loving  a  wife  as 
Bessie. 

Bessie  was  silent  and  pensive  for  some 
lime,  ller  glorious  bhic  eyes  were  veiled  by 
their  heavy  lashes,  and  were  downcast  and 
sad,  while  over  the  youthful  beauty  of  her 
face  there  was  a  gentle  melancholy,  which 
threw  around  her  a  touching  grace  and 
charm, 

"  And  O  Inez  darling ! "  said  she,  at 
length,  in  a  low  voice,  "  doesn't  it  seem 
sweet,  then,  to  you,  to  think  of  those  dear 
ones  reposing  in  that  holy  I'lace  that  dear 
grandpa  baa  told  us  so  much  about  f  " 


no 


AX   Ol'KS   QIESTIO.V. 


i 


il.r 


t^f  r 


"  It  does  sccin  sweet,"'  Fiild  Inez.  "  I  liad 
beard  in  a  vague  way  of  the  lloinan  Cata- 
combs, but  never  knew  what  thoy  really  were. 
I  had  nn  idea  that  they  were  dangero\is  and 
dreadful." 

"  Sure,  that's  from  the  silly  romiinces  that 
we've  read.  Hut  dear  grandpa  has  known 
them  all  his  life,  so  he  has;  and  oh,  but  's 
the  holy  man  that  he  is  himself,  with  his  long 
life  of  fasting  and  devotion ;  and  it's  the 
great  ftiend  he  was  of  our  do.ir  papa,  Inez 
dear ! " 

"  Yes,"  paid  Inez  ;  "  they  must  have  been 
congenial  spirits.  I  only  wish  I  had  known 
him  before.  AVliat  a  beautiful  enthusiasm 
he  has  for  the  saintly  type  of  human  charae- 
tcr — the  monks  of  the  middle  ages  ;  and  how 
be  manages  to  kindle  the  same  foelings  in  an- 
other !  I  feel  it,  and  I  know  you  do  too, 
Bessie  dear,  for  that  was  what  made  you 
ninkc  your  remark  just  now  about  wishing  to 
take  the  veil.'' 

"Sure  and  I  don't  deny,  then,  that  it  was 
Just  that  same,  Inez  dear  ;  and  really  it  would 
be  BO  eharming,  you  know ;  but  then,  poor 
dear  Owynnic  would  go  on  so,  and  be  so  sad, 
that  I'm  afraid  I  shoul.I  not  have  the  courage 
to  do  it." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  said  Inez. 

"Well,"  said  Ilcssie,  "it  must  be  the 
prospect  of  going  to  that  sacred  plaro  that 
gives  me  those  feelings.  I've  been  fasting 
all  day,  and  preparing  myself.  I  could  not 
go  there  as  I  would  go  to  a  picture-gallery.  I 
go  to  the  graves  of  my  nearest  and  dearest 
ones,  80  I  do;  and  sure  I  hope  that  wc  may 
be  buried  there  some  day,  Inez  darling — don't 
you,  dear  ?  " 

"Yc,  dear;  I  can  think  of  no  sweeter 
burial-place." 

At  this  instant  Kevin  Magrnth  entered  the 
room,  and  Inez  and  Bessie  both  rose  with 
pleasant  smilea  to  meet  him.  Ho  regarded 
them  boih  wiih  tl)at  genial  sniMo  of  his, 
»hich  was  benignant,  tender,  and  pater- 
nal. 

"  Well,  my  dear  gycrruls,''  said  ho,  in  a 
tone  of  gentle  inelanelioly,  "  you  miy  get 
ready  now,  and  <lon't  forget  to  |)ut  on  some- 
thing warrum,  for  I  wouldn't  likeyt-'s  to  catch 
cold.  In  the  hot  summer  even,  whin  pcopW 
go  down  to  saunter  about  for  the  aftonioon, 
ye'll  see  Ihim  all  dressed  like  Russians,  so  vo 
Win." 

"  Oh,  you  have  warned  us  enou^il,  gran<I- 


pa  dearest,"  said  Bessie.  "  We'll  bo  careful, 
never  fear." 

Leaving  the  room,  they  completed  their 
preparations,  and  soon  returned.  Kevin  Ma- 
grath  then  led  the  way,  and  they  followed 
him.  Uoaching  the  lower  floor,  he  lighted 
three  lanterns,  each  of  wkieh  gave  a  most 
brilliant  glow,  and  then  descended  into  tho 
cellar,  followed  by  the  two.  Not  the  slightest 
hesitation  was  shown  by  either  of  them.  The 
lustre  of  tho  lamps  illumined  the  cellar  most 
brilliantly,  and  the  look  which  thoy  cast 
about  the  place  showed  nothing  more  than 
ctirio.'-ity  and  interest.  The  opening  into  tho 
place  was  very  much  larger  than  it  had  been 
at  Iflake's  visit,  for  the  lower  ton)bs  had  been 
knocked  away,  and  it  was  thus  large  enough 
for  Inez  or  liessio  to  enter  with  only  a  slight 
inclination  of  their  heads.  There  was  also  a 
small  door,  with  a  lock,  with  which  the  open- 
ing could  be  closed.  The  door  was  very  mas- 
sive, and  so  was  the  frauie. 

Kevin  Magrath  stopped  for  a  short  time, 
and  looked  at  Inez  nnd  Hessie. 

"  Ye're  about  to  inter  n  holy  place,"  said 
he.  "  It's  a  place  that  will  not  inspire  alar- 
rum  after  what  I've  told  ye's  ;  but  it  will 
surely  giro  ye's  a  sintimint  of  soliran  awe — 
from  the  sacred,  the  rivirintial,  and  the  viii- 
irible  associations  around.  Ye'll  see  numer- 
ous passages  ;  but  yc  can't  lose  yer  way  with 
me  ;  and,  as  to  the  solioliude,  why,  it's  only 
ppparii.t,  for  there's  plenty  hero  movin;; 
about,  and  ye'll  meet  hundreds,  so  ye  will, 
before  ye  get  out." 

With  these  words  he  passed  through  the 
opening,  and  Bessie  and  Inez  came  after 
him. 

"  There's  nothing  more  ilivating  in  life," 
siiil  Magrath,  standing  still  and  looking 
around,  "  thin  a  visit  to  this  sanetified  spot. 
There's  a.  certain  divine  charrum  here  tliat 
iinprissis  ivery  mind.  I've  alriddy  tcld  yo 
the  whole  history  of  this  place,  its  nature, 
uses,  ofTlces,  ixtint — so  I  need  say  no  more  on 
that.  But  no.v,  dear  gycrruls,  bd'orc  we  go 
further,  let  us  pause  and  imlivor  to  aehunu 
our  minds  to  the  grandeur  of  the  place ;  Kt 
\is  fool  that  wo  are  surroundeil  on  ivery  side 
by  a  great  cloud  of  wiinisses." 

Aflei  waiting  a  little  while,  he  proceeded 
at  a  slow  pace,  and  Inez  and  Bessie  followed. 
Their  eyes  rested  on  those  same  scenes  which 
Blake  had  viewed  before,  in  this  same  com- 
pany.     T!io  lights   shone   bright,   but   died 


OOINC   TO   I'KAY   AT   CLARA'S  GRAVE. 


away  in  tlic  gloom  before  nnj  behind.  After 
a  wliilo  Magratli  walked  closer  to  them,  uiul 
raado  remarks  from  time  to  time  in  aecnrd- 
aneo  with  the  nature  of  the  surroundiug 
Bccnc. 

"It's  a  holy  place,"  said  he.  "Even  the 
very  dust  i.s  holy,  so  it  is.  Those  passage- 
ways were  ixciiviited  by  the  hands,  worriiu  by 
the  feet,  and  hallowed  by  the  blissid  rilics  of 
npostlcs,  Saints,  martyrs,  eonlissors,  virgins, 
and  holy  innoeints  ;  yes,  here  we  have,  in  very 
deed  around  us,  the  goodly  fellowship  cf  the 
aaints,  the  glorious  company  of  the  apostles, 
and  the  white-robed  army  of  martyrs  ;  here, 
too,  above  all,  we  shall  sec  the  lust  risting- 
placc  of  those  who  were  so  dear  to  us. 

".^cc  there,"  said  he,  pointing  to  a  small 
tablet ;  "  it's  a  child-martyr,  and  sure,  but 
it's  a  touching  thing  intirely  to  think  of  these 
cliildmartyrs — buried  here — but  yc'U  be  hav- 
ing  plinty  cf  opporeliutiitics  to  see  thira  all 
yit,  Inez  darling,  so  ye  will — so  we  won't  stop 
now." 

In  this  way  they  went  on  till  they  reached 
the  first  cross-passage. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  ye  observe  what  I  told 
ye — rcgyard  this  passage-way — it's  a  cross- 
street,  as  it  were;  the  right  hand  brings  ye  to 
the  crypt  of  the  Cfiicse  <li  Snn  J'iclro  in  ear- 
cere,  while  the  left  one  runs  to  Chksi  di  Gem. 
This  is  the  true  holy  city — this  subterranean 
Rome;  this  is  the  tirristrial  Jerusalem,  wiili 
its  population  of  martyrs — the  true  Zion  that 
I  love.  And  here  come  all  thim  that  pray 
for  the  peace  of  Jerusalem  ;  here  resort  thim 
that  are  weary  of  the  vanities  of  the  upper 
wurruld,  to  hold  commune  with  the  [spirits  of 
the  departed.  All  these  patlis  lead  to  churches, 
or  sometimes  to  houses  that  have  easy  con- 
nection with  the  streets  above,  so  that  ye  can 
start  ill  hot  weather  and  visit  a  friend  by  tak- 
ing one  of  these  underground  streets.  Yc'Il 
yet  see  thcfc  pnss.nges  thronged,  so  ye  will — 
yi.'i,  with  busy  life  too.  I've  seen  hundreds 
here — yi.'*,  tliousano's,  so  I  have." 

At  length  they  reached  that  place  which 
IJlake  had  known  as  the  Tainted  Chamber. 

"  Here,"  said  Magrath,  "  is  one  of  the 
cintral  points  from  which  sanctity  seems  to 
bo  irradiated  all  around.  We  are  not  far 
from  our  distinatioii,so  let  us  wait  here  for  a 
momint,  to  prejiure  our  minds  for  the  last. 
There's  a  solimnity  about  this  place  that  niver 
fails  to  inipriss  me — an  awo  I  always  feel — ■ 
and  never  have  I  felt  it  stronger  than  now. 


Look,  Inez  darling;  look,  IJessio  jool, at  thira 
painted  walls.  These  walls  speak,  and  seo 
what  a  past  they  tell  about." 

Inez  and  IJessic  looked  around,  and  gazed 
with  deep  interest  upon  the  objects  vi.'^iblo 
there,  and  listened  to  the  explanations  of 
their  guide.  As  for  Magratii,  he  seemed  to 
lose  himself  in  his  lofty  theme,  and  rose 
every  moment  to  a  higher  strain  of  eloquent 
rhapsodizing. 

"  Ve  must  contimplatc  the  Christian  wor- 
ruld  in  tfce  times  of  persecution,''  said  he, 
"  In  those  times  the  Catacombs  opened  before 
them  as  a  city  of  rifuge.  Here  lay  the  bonca 
of  their  fathers  who,  from  glneration  to  gin- 
eralion,  had  fought  and  died  for  the  truth. 
Here  they  brought  their  rilitivcs  as  one  by 
one  they  died.  Here  the  son  had  borrun  the 
bo<ly  of  his  aged  parint,  and  the  parint  had 
seen  his  child  eomniittcd  to  the  tomb.  Hero 
they  had  carried  the  mangled  remains  of  those 
who  had  l)een  torn  by  the  wild  beasts  of  the 
arena,  the  Ijlackined  coriises  of  those  that 
had  been  committed  to  the  flames,  or  the 
wasted  forrums  of  those  most  miserable,  who 
had  sighed  out  their  lives  amid  the  lingering 
agonies  of  crucifixion.  The  place  was  hal- 
lowed, and  it  was  no  wonder  that  they  ^ould 
seek  for  refuge  here. 

"  Here,  thin,  the  persecuted  Christians 
turruned,  and  they  peopled  these  paths  and 
grottoes — by  day  assinibling  to  exchango 
wonls  of  cheer  and  comfort,  or  to  bewail  the 
death  of  some  new  martyr;  by  night  sinding 
forth  the  boldest  among  thim,  like  a  forlornin 
hope,  to  learrun  tidinirs  of  the  upper  worruld, 
or  to  bring  down  the  blood-stained  bodies  of 
some  new  victim.  Po  they  saved  thinisilves, 
but  at  what  a  cost! 

"Yis,  at  what  a  coiJt — living  here  amid 
the  damp  vapors  and  the  dinse  smoke  of  their 
torches!  Sure  to  glory,  but  to  me  the  Roman 
spirit  that  enjured  all  this  t0"irs  up  to 
grander  proportions  than  were  ever  attained 
in  the  days  of  the  republic.  The  fortlchudu 
of  ReguliH,  the  devotion  of  Curtiu:»,  the  con- 
stancy of  liriitus,  were  here  suri>a?i<ed,  not 
by  the  strong  man,  but  by  the  tindir  virgin 
and  the  weak  child.  And  thus,  scorruning 
to  yield  to  the  fiercest  powers  of  persecution, 
these  min  went  forth,  the  good,  the  pure  in 
heart,  the  great,  the  brave.  I'or  thim,  death 
had  no  terrors,  nor  that  appalling  lite  in  death 
which  they  had  to  enjurc  hero  in  this  sublcv- 
rnncan  worruld. 


223 


AX  OPEN'  QUESTIOX. 


.V 


"Look  Qround  yc's  now.  AYliat  is  it  that 
ye  see?  Ye  behold  tlie  lolcins,  tlie  imblims, 
of  the  thoiifrhts  and  I'cclinf^s  that  animated 
thini,  and  tlic  constant  cllbrts  which  they 
made  to  consolo  tlicir  niindi  by  lilirinco  to 
sliupcrnatural  truths.  lu  tliat  ancient  wor- 
ruld,  ye'll  remimber,  art  was  cultivated  and 
cherished  more  ginerally  tlian  in  tlic  modern 
vrorrulci.  'Wherever  any  nuuibor  of  niiu  and 
■women  gathered  togctlier,  an  imminse  propor- 
tioD  had  tlic  taste  and  the  talint  for  art. 
Whin  tlie  Christians  peopled  the  Catacomba, 
the  artist  was  here  too,  and  his  art  was  not 
unimphned.  Tlicso  chambers  were  to  tlic 
C'hri.stiiin  population  like  sciuares  amid  the 
narrow  streets  around;  and  here  it  was  that 
they  made  efforts  for  addorunraint.  So,  yo 
8ce,  they  covered  the  walls  with  white  stucco, 
and  tliey  painted  on  thiin  pictures  of  the 
saints  and  martyrs,  the  apostles  and  proi)hets, 
flio  confissors  and  witnesses  for  the  truth. 
If,  in  the  hour  of  bitter  anguish,  they  sought 
for  scenes  or  for  thoughts  that  might  relieve 
their  souls  and  prnjuce  fresh  strength  within 
thira,  they  could  have  found  no  other  objects 
to  look  upon,  so  strong  to  encourage,  so 
mighty  to  console. 

■'  Yis,  in  these  graves  around  me,"  he  con- 
tinued, rising  to  a  higher  strain  of  enthusi- 
asm, "  I  behold  the  remains  of  those  who  ili- 
ivated  Immanity ;  of  whom  the  worruld  was 
not  worthy.  They  lived  at  a  time  whin,  to 
bo  a  Christian,  was  to  risk  one's  life.  They 
did  not  shrink,  but  boldly  proclainn  J  their 
faith,  and  acciptid  tho  consequinees.  They 
drew  a  broad  line  between  thimsilves  and  the 
Leathin,  and  stood  manfully  on  their  own 
side.  To  utter  a  few  words,  to  pcrforrum  a 
simple  art,  could  always  save  from  impinding 
death;  but  the  tongue  refused  to  speak  the 
formula,  and  tho  stubborn  hand  refused  to 
power  the  libation.  They  took  up  the  cross, 
and  bore  the  reproach.  That  cross  was  not 
a  figure  of  speech,  as  it  now  is  in  these  days 
of  emasculated  Christianity.  Witness  these 
names  of  martyrs — these  words  of  anguish ! 
These  walls  have  carried  down  to  us,  through 
tho  ages,  tho  words  of  grief,  of  lamentation, 
of  ever-changing  feeling,  which  wero  marked 
upon  them  by  those  who  once  sought  rifugo 
here.  They  tell  their  mourrunful  story  to  us 
in  these  latter  days,  and  raise  up  before  our 
imagination  tho  forrums,  tho  fecUngs,  and 
tho  acts  of  those  who  were  imprisoned  hero. 
And,  just  as  the  forrums  of  life  arc  taken  up- 


on the  plates  of  the  camera,  so  has  the  great 
voice,  once  forced  out  by  suffering  from  tho 
very  soul  of  the  martyr,  become  stamped  up- 
on these  walls  all  around  us  wlierivcr  wc  tur- 
run  our  eyes." 

lie  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then,  clasp, 
ing  his  hand.o,  looked  with  a  lapt  gaze  at  va- 
cancy, and  burst  forth : 

"  Yis,  yc  humble  witnisses  of  the  truth, 
poor,  desp!.«cd,  forlorrun,  and  forsaken,  in 
vain  your  calls  for  morey  wint  forth  to  the 
cars  of  man :  they  were  stifled  in  the  blood 
of  the  slaughter  and  in  the  smoke  of  tho 
sacrifice !  Yet,  where  your  own  race  only 
answered  your  cry  of  despair  with  ficsh  tor- 
ramints,  these  rocky  walls  proved  more  mer- 
ciful ;  they  heard  your  cries,  they  took  thira 
to  their  bosoms,  and  so  your  words  of  suDer- 
ir.g  live  here,  trisured  up  and  graven  in  the 
rock  foriver ! 

"  Ah,  my  childrin  !  ah,  Inez  d;irling  !  I?cs- 
sie  jool !  let  your  imagination  have  full  swing, 
and  try  to  bring  before  yer  mind's  eyes  tho 
truth  of  these  surroundings.  Contimplatc 
thim  as  they  once  were.  Ye'll  sec  these  pas- 
sages not  left  to  tho  silent  slumber  of  the 
dead,  but  filled  with  thousands  of  the  living. 
W.nn,  and  pale,  and  sad,  and  oppressed,  they 
find,  even  amid  this  darkness,  a  better  fate 
than  that  which  awaits  them  in  the  worruld 
above-ground.  Bu?y  life  animates  the  haunts 
of  the  dead ;  these  pathways  ring  to  the  sound 
of  human  voices.  The  light  of  truth  and 
virtue,  banished  from  the  ujipcr  air,  burruns 
anew  with  a  purer  mjiancc  in  this  subterra- 
nean gloom  I  The  tender  greetings  of  affic- 
tion,  of  frindship,  of  kinship,  and  of  love, 
arise  amid  the  mowldering  remains  of  the  de- 
parted. Hero  the  tear  of  grief  bejews  the 
blood  of  tho  martyr,  and  the  hand  of  adic- 
tion  wraps  his  pale  limbs  in  the  shroud.  Eero 
in  these  grottoes  the  heroic  soul  rises  up  shu- 
perior  to  sorrow.  Hope  and  faith  smile  cx- 
ultingly,  and  the  voice  of  praise  breathes  It- 
self forth  from  tho  lips  of  the  mourrun- 
cr!" 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  was  silent  for 
some  time. 

"  Sure  but  it's  rhapsodical  I  am  intiroly, 
dear  gycrruls,"  said  he,  at  last,  "but  I  can't 
help  it.  Whiniver  I  get  upon  these  themes  I 
am  carried  away  beyond  mysilf,  I  ouglit  to 
have  held  mo  tongue,  and  given  mcself  up  to 
contimplation.  Hut  it's  difficult  to  be  calm 
amid  such  scenes  aa  these." 


GOIXli   TO   rUAV   AT   n.AltA'S  GRAVK. 


223 


But  Inez  ansurcJ  liim  that  she  luvud  to 
licar  him  talk  iu  this  way  iu  Kuch  a  plaeo,  and 
that  plii^  could  have  listened  fur  lunger  with 
delight  and  with  instruction. 

"Weil,  well,"  haid  he,  "  it's  very  kind  lor 
you  to  say  that,  so  it  is,  and  I  know  how 
unliable  ye  are  intircly,  but — I'm  thinking  I 
winta  little  beyond  ye;  howandiver,  we  needn't 
bo  losing  time,  so  let's  go  on  now,  in  the  '  pe 
that  our  luiuds'll  be  iu  fitting  trim  fur  the 
(Sacred  juties  and  holy  coutimplalions  that  lie 
befower  us.  Cumo  on,  dear  gyerruls — come 
on,  Inez  darling — come  on,  IJcssic  jool.  Fol- 
low me,  children  dear,  for  w  ro  close  by  the 
spot,  so  wc  arc." 

With  tlicao  words  ho  turned,  and,  fol- 
lowed by  Inez  and  Bessie,  walked  out  of  the 
I'ainted  Chamber. 

Inez  followed  first  along  the  passage-way 
which  lay  between  tlie  Tainted  Chamber  and 
that  opening  in  the  floor  into  the  realms  be- 
low. iShc  was  perfectly  and  utterly  fearless. 
Of  the  gloom  and  the  terrors  around  her  she 
had  not  the  faintest  idea,  !^he  walked  tli  e 
ns  fearlessly  as  though  she  was  walking  alung 
the  Corso,  as  though  she  was  passing  up  the 
liavo  of  Ht.  reter's,  but  only  with  a  deeper 
solemnity,  and  a  holier  calm,  and  a  prol'uuud- 
cr  awe 

This  may  easily  be  explained.  C>uce  she 
had  entertained  tho  common  opinion  about 
the  lloman  Catacombs,  blio  did  not  know 
any  thing  Tcry  particular  about  them.  Slie 
had  read  about  them  in  a  general  way,  and 
in  the  course  of  her  reading  she  had  encoun- 
tered terrible  talcs  of  people  who  had  been 
lost  in  these  endless  labyrinths.  But  all 
these  hud  been  dismissed.  Kevin  Magrath 
had  given  her  a  different  opinion  about  them. 
From  him  she  learned  that  they  were  not 
dangerous  at  all,  but  were  a  common  resort 
of  devotees;  that,  instead  of  being  a  series 
of  labyrinthine  passages  without  end,  they 
were  in  reality  connected  in  counties  places 
with  the  houses  above;  and  that  the  dilTi- 
cully  was  not  how  to  avoid  being  lost,  but 
rather  how  to  find  some  passage-way  which 
would  not  lead  into  the  cellar  of  a  house,  or 
the  crypt  of  some  church.  Thus  Inez  be- 
lieved herself  to  be  in  a  place  which  wa*  a 
common  resort,  a  place  where  in  every  direc- 
tion there  were  passages  leading  straight  to 
tho  upper  world.  With  this  belief  fear  was 
impossible. 

But  she  had  stronger  feelings  than  this 


belief — the  feeling  of  religious  ardor  evoked 
by  the  enlhusiuslio  declamation  of  Magrath, 
who,  from  being  earnest,  had  grown  rliap- 
sodieal.  S-he  felt  her  soul  kindling  at  hi.H 
veluinent  words ;  she  felt  her  must  intense 
religious  fervor  evoked  by  the  thoughts  which 
he  had  called  up  of  that  sublimo  i)ast,  when 
this  was  a  city,  not  of  the  dead,  but  of  tho 
living;  when  tiie  faithful  soiiglit  rel'ugo  here 
from  persecution  ;  and  where,  amid  the  relics 
of  dead  saints,  there  stood  those  living  saints 
who  themselves  were  destined  to  swell  tho 
ranks  of  the  "  white-robed  army  of  mar- 
tyrs." 

Beneath  all  this  was  her  solemn  purpose 
for  which  she  had  come — tho  cnil  of  her  pil- 
grimoge  to  Komc — the  graves  of  her  father, 
her  mother,  and  her  sister.  I'or  this  she  had 
prepared  herself,  and  this  lay  before  her. 
For  this  the  scenes  thus  far  had  only  served 
to  prepare  her  soul,  and  the  words  which  she 
had  beard  seemed  a  fitting  prelude  to  the  sol- 
emn devotions  before  lier. 

Kevin  Magratii  slopped. 

Inez  looked  around. 

At  her  feet  she  saw  a  step-ladder.  A  lit- 
tle In  front  she  saw  an  opening  iu  the  path, 
black,  yawn    _' ! 

"It's  an  opening  into  a  passage  below  like 
this,"  said  Kevin  Magrath.  "  It's  down  there 
that  we're  going ;  there,  Inez  darling,  they  lie 
— the  loved  one? — wailing  for  you  and  for  us. 
I  brought  the  ladder  here  this  morning.  It's 
only  u  short  distance,  and  I'll  help  ye's  botli 
down  easy  enough.  Ye'll  find  it  just  tho 
same  down  there  as  it  is  up  here." 

The  sight  of  this  pit  at  first  startled  Inez, 
but  Slagrath's  words  reassured  her. 

"  It  looks  dangerous,"  said  he,  "  but  peo- 
ple always  carry  lights,  and  so  there's  niver 
any  aecidint.  Besides,  it's  only  in  out-of-the 
way  places  that  we  find  these  lower  stories. 
It's  only  a  few  feet,  too." 

Saying  this,  he  pushed  the  step-ladder 
down  into  the  opening.  It  touched  the  floor 
below,  and  rested  there,  with  tho  top  of  iO 
projecting  a  short  distance  above. 

"  It's  a  mighty  convanicnt  thing  intirely," 
said  he,  "  and  I'll  help  ye's  both  down.  You 
may  come  down  first  after  mo,  Inez  darling— 
and  thin,  Bessie  jool,  I'll  fetch  //o"." 

With  these  words  he  descended,  and  soon 
reached  the  place  below.  lie  placed  his  lan- 
tern on  the  floor,  and  the  bright  gleam  illu- 
minated the  passage-way,  showing  that  it  was 


i  ,k 


AN   OPEN   QIESTIOX. 


tlio  couiitcrp;irt  of  the  ono  ubovo.  Kevin 
Miigiutli  stood  mill  looked  up.  There  wiis  a 
RCtitlo  tituilc  on  hit)  fucc,  and  witli  tliia  tlierc 
was  un  expression  of  solemn  awe  wbicl>  was 
ill  I<eopini;  witii  the  bcpiio  around. 

"  IK'ri',"  said  lie,  "rot  lar  uway,  Id  the 
risiin^  plat'O  of  liie  loved  ones;  litre  your 
father  and  I  witli  our  own  liond.'*,  Inez  dar- 
ling, boro  the  precious  rilics  of  poor  Clara; 
and  licrc  afterward  it  wn»  mc  own  niourrun- 
ful  privilege  to — but  wait  till  I  help  yr,  dear; 
give  ine  ycr  hand  thin." 

While  ho  was  speaking  Inez  had  bcf;un  to 
descend,  and  Ma^ruth  slopped  short  in  hii> 
remarks,  to  help  lier.  He  stood  on  tlie  low  ;r 
step  of  the  ladder,  and  reached  out  his  hauc'. 
Then,  not  satisfied  wilh  that,  ho  went  up  u 
low  8tC|)S,  holding  her  so  as  to  help  her  down. 
At  length  Inez  reached  tlie  floor  below. 

The  lamp  wan  burning  then  brightly. 
Inez,  full  of  the  solemn  purpose  before  her, 
and  roused  up  to  a  high  ciitliusiAsm  by  the 
scene  around,  and  by  the  events  that  had 
thus  far  occurred,  enst  one  look  up  the  path- 
way, and  another  look  down,  and  tlien  stood 
waiting  for  Hessic,  wilh  her  eyes  downcast, 
and  her  mind  preparing  itself  for  what  was 
before  her.  Ho,  in  deep  abstraction,  stood 
Inez. 

Bessie  was  on  the  floor  above,  at  the  head 
of  the  ladder.  Kevin  Slagrath  was  on  the 
floor  below,  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder.  Ho 
looked  up  and  said  nothing.  licssic  looked 
down.     Tlieir  eyes  met. 

"  It  makes  me  so  dizzy,  grandpa  dear," 
said  Ucssie.  "  It  always  makes  me  dizzy  to 
climb  ladders,  or  to  look  down  places,  so  it 
docs.     Inez  wan  always  awfully  brave." 

"Dizzy  is  it?  Sure  to  glory  but  its  the 
big  I  >ward  ye  are  thin,"  said  Kevin  Magrath. 
"  Sure  if  yu'rc  afraid,  I'll  go  up  and  carry  ye 
down  in  rae  arrums,  so  I  will." 

Inez  was  standing  there.  She  held  In  her 
hands  the  lantern  which  she  had  carried. 
She  heard  these  words.  At  the  same  time 
her  eyes  were  struck  by  a  flash  of  light  in  the 
passage  at  some  distance.  There  was  also 
the  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps,  as  of  some 
ono  advancing.  Slic  could  not  help  feeling 
some  curiosity.  That  some  one  should  be 
advancing  was  not  at  all  surprising  to  her, 
for  Kevin  Magrath  had  given  her  to  under- 
st.ind  that  the  Catacombs  were  visited  and 
traversed  by  people  at  all  hours  of  the  day 
and    night.      These   perhaps,  she    thought, 


might  bo  like  herself,  mourncrfi,  visitors  to 
the  graves  of  departed  friends.  So  shs  stood 
looking. 

Kevin  Magrath  was  looking  up,  his  back 
being  turned,  and  his  attentiim  absorbed 
with  Itessie  and  with  his  own  thoughts.  Ho 
had  not  seen  that  gleam  of  light,  nor  had  ho 
heard  the  footsteps,  lie  was  so  absorbed  in 
his  own  purposes, 

"  Inez  darling,"  said  he,  not  turning  to 
face  her,  not  choosing  now  to  look  at  her, 
"  I'll  liavo  to  go  up  to  carry  Ilcs-fio  down. 
Sure  but  it's  the  big  coward  she  is  thin! — 
Bessie,  jool,  if  ye  won't  come  down,  or  if  yo 
can't,  why  yo  needn't.  Wait  a  momint,  and 
i  II  bring  yo  in  nie  ov  n  arrums. — Wait  a  mo- 
iniiit,  Inez  darling.  It's  only  a  minute  I'll  be, 
ye  know,  and  then  we'll  rczliumo  our  wan- 
dciings — to  the  holy  graves — and — we'll  pcr- 
forrum  the  last  mourrunful  rites,  so  wo  will." 

He  had  spoken  slowly.  He  seemed  to 
think  that  Inez  would  bo  afraid  to  have  hiia 
go  up  even  for  a  niinute,  and  so  tried  to  re- 
assure her  and  to  strengthen  her  by  remind- 
ing her  of  the  purpose  before  her.  There 
was,  in  reality,  no  need  of  this,  since  Inez  did 
not  have  the  slightest  suspicion,  and,  from 
perfect  ignorance,  was  perfectly  fearless. 

At  this  moment  also,  and  while  ho  was 
speaking,  her  eyes  were  flxed  on  an  odvanr- 
ing  figure  hastening  along.  A  strongo  thrill 
came  over  her.  It  seemed  incredible.  She 
could  scarcely  stand.  The  figure  came  near- 
er, nearer,  nearer.  It  was  a  man,  who  was 
hurr\iiig  at  a  rapid  run;  he  had  a  lantern, 
which  revealed  his  form  and  face. 

The  noise  of  those  advancing  footsteps 
could  now  not  fail  to  force  itself  tliroiigh 
Kevin  .Magrath's  abstraction  of  soul,  into 
which  he  had  fallen  from  the  pressure  of  his 
own  purpose.  Already  he  had  ono  foot  on 
the  lowest  step  of  tho  ladder,  and  his  left 
hand  had  grasped  it  so  as  to  ascend,  when 
that  strange  and  startling  noise  eanio  to  Lis 
ears. 

lie  stopped  and  turned. 

And  then,  full  before  him,  and  rushlhg 
toward  him,  be  saw  It.  Kushing  toward  him 
with  impetuous  haste,  with  a  face  ghastly 
white,  with  fierce,  eager  eyes,  with  one  hand 
holding  a  lantern,  and  the  other  hand  out- 
stretched as  if  to  strike;  wild,  terrible,  men- 
acing, ho  saw  It!  What?  The  tremendous 
apparition  of  tho  man  whom  ho  had  led  down 
here,  and  left  to  die  in  this  very  place  ;  from 


r-'*^.- 


T 


(iOIX(J   TO   PRAY   AT   CLAKA'S  (lUAVE. 


•?.; 


25 


whom  lie  Imd  fled  up  tliia  very  opening;  tlic 
form  of  the  dead  ;  the  nppnritioii  (if  horror! 
It  Kns  Da.Ml  Wyvcrno;  the  man  wliom  he 
Knew  to  he  dead,  hut  wliom  lie  saw  to  be 
livinR — living  in  tlii.s  drenr  liome  of  death ;  a 
spectacle  of  anguish  unutterable ;  a  figure  np- 
))alling  and  abhorrent;  a  siglit  and  a  thought 
that  man  might  not  face;  before  which 
lienson  trembled  and  vani^^lud ;  and  tlie 
strong,  rcmoraeles.«  nature,  hardened  to  nets 
of  crime,  uhuddcr'.  '   ud  sank  away. 

"Why,  Dr.  niuk;!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Inez, 

It  was  followed  l)y  a  gni'p  and  a  groi..i ; 
then  the  fiound  of  rushing  footstrpH  in  pan* 
ic  flight,  and  Kevin  Mngrath  di!fappeare<I, 
swallowed  up  in  tliick  daikncK!<,  while  ihe 
sound  of  th'/.se  footsteps  came  up  from  afar, 
lessening  gradually  till  all  n-as  still,  from  that 
passage  up  whiel;  the  fabulous  Onofrio  had 
lied. 

At  the  same  moment  a  piercing  cry  came 
from  Hessie  in  the  pas.sagi'-way  above.  For 
she  had  been  stooping  down  low,  and,  startled 
by  the  niovcment  of  Kevin  Magrath,  she  knelt 
down  and  put  her  luad  lower  Htill,  sc  as  to 
sec  what  it  was  that  caused  thin  agitation. 
And  in  thai  one  instance  she  saw  it  all. 

The  sudden  arrival  of  Dlako  upon  the 
scene  can  iio  accounted  for  in  the  most  natu- 
ral manner.  Ho  had  nurried  to  Home  with 
Kane  and  (!wyn,  fidl  of  onxicty.  He  hod 
lound  the  Via  del  Conli  and  had  recognized 
that  gloomy  building  wliich  had  been  pointed 
out  by  Kevin  Magrath  as  the  Monastery  of 
San  Antonio.  Turning  down  the  .<trcct  nt 
the  corner,  he  wci'.t  on  until  ho  had  reached 
and  fully  recognized  the  house  to  which  he 
had  been  taken  by  his  betrayer.  He  could 
find  out  nothing  about  it  now.  Peuplc  ."aid 
that  it  was  uninhabited,  and  its  aspe.'t  seemed 
lo  confirm  Mie  statement. 

Kevin  Magrath  had  informed  fJwyn  that 
!iC  would  stop  at  the  Hotel  delf  Kiiropo,  but, 
on  imiuiring  there,  they  could  learn  nothing 
whatever  about  liini,  This  made  lilakc  feel 
certain  that  ho  had  taken  Inez  at  oneo  to 
that  house.  At  first  he  tiiought  of  communi- 
cating with  the  police;  but  the  fever  of  his 
impatience  made  hiin  resolve  to  act  for  him- 
self. He  could  not  get  admittance  to  the 
houee  by  the  door,  but  he  remeniborcd  that 
he  could  penetrate  into  that  jiri.son  through 
iho  (.'atacombs.  Iron  crow-bars  and  the 
stout  arms  of  his  friend.'i  could  soon  break 
16 


Ihrongh  into  the  cellars,  and  I'lez  could  be 
reached  iiiul  icsciu  d  in  this  way  far  sooner 
than  by  the  nio\iinciil.-i  of  (he  iioliee. 

The  emergency  of  the  case,  and  his  new 
anxiety,  dispelled  the  tcrrorr,  of  the  C'ala- 
conjbs,  and  Kane  and  (iwyn  wjre  willing  to 
aceomp.  ny  him.  They  took  all  the  malei  iais 
that  were  recpiiiiite  for  their  purpose,  and  hur- 
ried to  the  mouth  of  the  Cloaca  Maxima. 
Their  movements  excited  no  attention,  for 
they  lookeil  like  one  of  those  exploring  parties 
which  n.ay  often  be  met  with  in  Home. 

In  due  time  they  came  to  the  broken 
stone,  and  passed  throujdi.  After  this,  tiny 
had  to  move  more  carefully.  Hut  at  length 
IJlake  discovered,  lying  on  the  lloor,  sonic- 
thing  which  gave  him  an  unmistakable  clew- 
to  the  path  which  he  should  take.  It  was 
that  burnt  match  which  he  had  lighted  while 
standing  at  the  intersection  of  tiic  two  paths, 
when  the  light  had  revealed  the  horrible  spec- 
tacle of  his  ossailants.  Hero  lay  the  Tuatch, 
at  the  intersection  of  the  two  paths,  and  ho 
was  oble  at  once  to  take  up  Ihe  course  which 
was  to  lead  him  back  over  the  secuc  of  his 
wanderings. 

Hero  the  course  was  perfectly  straight, 
and  tlii'y  at  length  reached  the  opening  above. 
I'p  this  lilake  climbed  by  means  of  those 
very  holes  which  he  had  cut  before,  when  his 
ear  caught  the  sound  of  voices,  and,  (.8  his 
head  arose  alx.ve  the  opening,  he  saw  a  glow 
of  light  before  hiin.    He  hung  thcrr,  '.steniog. 

It  was  Kevin  Magrath's  voice,  speaking 
in  a  high  key,  in  the  Painted  Chamber;  am^ 
Hlake  heard  nearly  all.  He  now  knew  that 
he  had  not  been  a  moment  too  soon,  and  that 
Inez  was  already  descending  to  her  living 
tomb.  As  Kevin  Magrath  ceased,  ho  lei 
himself  down  again,  and  lh<'y  hurriedly  dclib- 
crated  about  what  they  should  do  next.  It 
was  agreed  to  retreat,  lower  their  lamps,  and 
watch  from  a  convenient  distance.  This  they 
did,  and  from  the  gloom  around  thcni  ihcy 
saw  all.  They  saw  the  ladder  come  down. 
They  saw  Inez  descend  first.  They  saw 
U'ovin  Magrath  go  away.  They  heard  all 
that  passed  between  him  and  Kessie.  They 
heard  his  last  words,  and  saw  him  prepare  to 
ascend. 

Then  they  could  wait  nolongcr,  and  Blake 
sprang  forward  upon  his  horror-stricken 
encmv. 


dp^'-T? 


fi 


!i  ■ 


'It 


t 


:(  '.!  i 


226 


AX  OPEN  QUESTION. 


PTER  LIV. 


CO.NCLUSIOX. 


The  perfect  fearlessness  of  Inrz  In  this  ter- 
rible sitimtion,  cud  licr  utter  unconsciousness 
of  danger,  liavc  already  been  explained.  Xor 
did  tlic  appearanei!  of  Blake  seem  to  her  very 
extraordinary.  Kevin  Mapratli  had  (;ivcn  her 
to  tiiiilcrtitaiKl  tliat  the  Oatacoml)^  were  i 
place  of  common  rosovt,  easily  a'-ec^.^iljic,  and, 
in  some  part:',  actually  used  an  a  tlioroiigh- 
fnro  in  hot  weather.  That  Dlakc  should  be 
hero  W3.S  not  unaccounl.ildo.  Tn  a  moment 
she  accounted  fcir  it,  and  tlioufjlit  that  Ma- 
frra'h  must  have  told  him  of  her  presence  in 
Itomc,  and  of  her  in(en>led  visit  to  tliis  place. 
The  incongruity  of  a  lover'a  visit,  with  this 
Sacred  purpose  before  her,  was  certainly  evi- 
dent ;  yet  .she  was  consi  ious  of  no  vexation  ; 
nor  did  she  feel  any  other  emotion  than  sin- 
cer  joy.  Thu8  she  saw  his  appearance  witli 
the  same  quiet  pleasure  with  which  she  would 
have  greeted  it  iu  the  Corso  or  on  the  Pin- 
cian  Hill. 

This  w.ia  but  for  a  moment  or  so,  when 
she  first  saw  who  it  wf.  A  few  moments 
more,  and  these  feelings  were  succecdeu  by 
others  of  a  more  violent  eharacter. 

It  was  indeed  Dlakc,  and  he  was  advan- 
cing at  a  liLidlong  speed,  his  pallid  face 
showing  in  agony  of  anxiety  and  eagerness. 
To  re.'cuo  Inez,  and  to  avenge  his  own  inju- 
ries, had  brouglit  him  here  ;  and,  as  he  saw 
her  before  him,  standing  tlierc,  yet  saf?,  ho  at 
fl.  St  was  only  oon-'ciriis  of  her  ;  nor  did  the 
oil-'  r  (1  nire,  with  its  white  face  of  horror  and 
itarlnji,  eyes,  attract  his  regards.  His  only 
impulse  was  to  sei/.c  Ine?;  in  his  arms — to 
clasp  her  to  his  heart.  His  only  thought  was 
of  that  fate  which  had  been  prepared  for  her 
— tiie  terrific,  the  appalling,  the  living  grave, 
with  its  awful  accompaniments  I  Even  here, 
already  iu  that  grave,  she  was  standing;  and 
here  he  hud  fjund  her  1  He  could  not  know 
what  there  was  in  her  mind,  nor  could  he  un- 
derstand her  ignorance  of  danger;  but  he 
could  SCO  In  her  face  her  innocent  foarlcssness 
And  the  bright  welcome  of  her  glance.  It 
wail  inlinitcly  touching. 

With  an  inarticulate  cry  ho  caught  the 
Mtouiideil  Inez  in  hi<  arm.«,  and  pressed  her 
to  his  h''art  again  and  again.  Slie — over. 
whelmed  with  aniaz'>ment  at  such  unexpected 
pftuion  anu  vehemenuc)    bcwildeied  nt  such 


treatment  from  a  man  whom  she  certainly 
knew  as  her  lover,  but  who  yet  had  nc^vnr  de- 
clared his  love ;  half  terrified,  vet  not  alto- 
gptlicr  displeased — at  first  tried  to  shrink 
away,  and  then  yielded  hf  lples.«ly.  Hut,  iVom 
Ms  broken  words  and  exclamations,  kIic  was 
not  long  in  gathering  suggestions  of  .somc- 
thinp  ;  hat  terrible  doom  viiich  had  just  now 
been  owaKing  her  here.  A  vague  hovror  came 
over  her,  but  in  her  ignorance  and  bowik'er- 
inciH  that  horror  took  no  def.nite  shapt'. 

Though  Illake  had  thus  yielded  so  ut'erly 
to  the  rapture  of  his  b3ul  at  f.m'ing  Inez,  ho 
did  not  long  remain  f';rcctful  of  Lis  other 
purpose.  Lights  and  fooL-iiej,.-.  tamo  up  from 
behind  him,  and  in  a  few  minutes  two  others 
had  r('aehe<l  the  spot,  whom  Inez  in  her 
amazement  recognized  as  Kane  and  (Jwyn. 
In  the  faces  of  bo*'  «herc  was  an  expression 
80  awful  that  nc  ■  <  were  awal»er.ed  in 
Inez;  while  Hhike,  •  d  by  tlicir  approach, 
turned  away  from  Inez  to  look  for  his  enemy. 

He  had  seen  him  but  a  short  time  before, 
standing  at  the  foot  of  tho  ladder,  staring  at 
him.  As  he  now  looked  that  figure  wa.s  gone, 
but  in  place  of  It  there  was  another. 

It  WIS  Hessic. 

Her  face  wos  of  a  waxen  hue,  iter  lip* 
bloodless;  sin  looked  like  a  marble  statue, 
except  for  the  bright  blue  of  her  glorious 
eyes,  which  now  were  fixed  upon  tlie  party 
before  her,  wide  open,  «itli  an  expression  of 
childish  wonder. 

"  How  very,  very  funny  !  "  she  said,  at 
last. 

All  the  others  looked  at  her  in  sil'.'nce. 
There  was  perplexity  in  the  minds  of  Kane 
and  niake  aiul  (-"wyn  ;  ncr  could  they  at  yet 
decide  what  her  part  had  been,  (iwyn's  long 
agony  of  soul  about  her  haci  gom-  on  increas- 
ing, and  finding  her  here  now  seemed  a  con- 
firmation of  his  worst  suspicions.  For  he 
had  seen  her  coming  down  the  ladder,  and 
knew  that  she  had  allowed  lucx  to  be  taken 
down  first.  Tliat  one  thing  filled  liis  mind 
with  anguish. 

"Sure  but  this  is  an  unexpected  meeting 
entirely,"  said  Ihsnie,  In  a  simple,  unalTi'dcl 
nuinner;  "but  what  it)  the  wiilc  world  has 
happened  to  poor,  dear  gramlpapa  *" 

At  tliis  Inez,  wit's  u  diort,  perrcivei!  that 
Magrath  had  disappeared. 

"  Ho  was  hero  but  a  few  imuncnts  ago," 
eaid  i>ho. 

"  H«  has  gone,"  «aid  Dinko,  in  a  Bolcmn 


WM 


cortainly 
never  do- 
not  ulto- 
Klii'iiik 
Jut,  iVom 
filu!  was 

of    SOIIIC- 
jllSt  MOW 

Toronmc 

txwiii'er. 

.ilu>. 

1  iit'crly 
Inez,  ho 

•  is    otlicr 

10  tip  from 

wo  otiiers 

pz   in    her 

lud   (iwvii. 

i'X|>rc!»sion 

iiker.cil  in 

iipproacli, 

liis  enemy. 

me  before, 

staring  at 

ewjs  gone, 

r. 


CONCU'SIOX. 


827 


Tolcc,  "  lo  Ilia  own  place ! "  A  Bliudilcr 
paHBed  thioii;;h  iiim,  and  lie  paused,  for  he 
thought  of  tlio  ful)led  Oiiofrio,  and  remem- 
bered that  the  xeene  of  liis  flight  had  been 
laid  ill  thi^  very  place.  "  Inez,"  ho  con- 
tinued, looldiij,-  upon  her  with  a  gaze  of 
un:ipeal{al)ie  tenderness  and  compassion — 
"Inez!  0  Inez!  you  little  know  what  you 
have  escaped.  It  is  something  so  appalling 
that  I  cannot  bear  to  tell.  I  should  prefer  to 
put  it  off  to  some  time  when  our  surround- 
ings might  not  be  so  fearful,  but  I  sec  thai 
it  must  not  bo  put  off.  I  must  tcU  it  now, 
for  wo  are  all  hero,  and  she  is  here  " — indi- 
cating Be.ssie — "who  is  so  deeply  implicated, 
and  others  are  hero  whoso  whole  life  now 
depends  upon  the  onswer  she  may  give.  Pre- 
pare yourself,  Inez.  Try  to  bear  what  is 
coming.  In  the  first  place,  answer  me  this: 
What  was  it  that  brought  you  here  ?  " 

Inez  looked  with  awo  at  the  solemn  face 
of  the  ppoakcr.  Her  voice  was  tremulous  as 
she  replied  lo  hi.s  (lucsllon  : 

■  I  came  down  here  to  pray  at  the  grave 
of  my  dear  papa,  and — " 

"Your  father!"  interrupted  Ulakc  — 
"  Your  father !  Do  you  mean  Ilernul  Mor. 
daunt?" 

"  Yes." 

"And  have  you  not  heard  the  truth  tibo'it 
him  from  her  t "  he  exclaimed. 

"Truth?  what  truth?"  a;'kcd  Inez,  full 
of  ugitalion. 

A  silen'-e  followed.  Itcssic  stood  looking 
III  tliem  as  before,  but  none  of  them  looked 
at  her.  They  averted  their  cye.»,  for  this  an- 
nwer  of  Inez  opened  up  endless  suspicion'. 

Dlnke,  ^'ter  a  time,  we'it  on,  and  told 
Inez  the  whole  truth  about  her  father's  re- 
turn and  death,  of  Hessie's  taking  her  place, 
and  reeeiviiig  her  father's  biossing. 

As  th"  Irulli  began  to  'luwn  on  her,  Inez 
(i.tod  her  eyes  upon  Bessie  with  a  look  of  in- 
describable wonder  and  reproach,  while  Ues- 
slo  looked  at  her  with  unallcrablo  placidity. 
As  soon  as  Itlake  h.id  ended,  Inez  asked  her  : 

"  f.  ,,...«io  I  is  this  al!  true  ?  " 

"Sure  and  it  is,  then,  Inez  darling,  every 
word  of  it,  and  I'm  glad  it's  out,  for  it's  been 
a  sore  load  on  my  heart  all  the  time,  so  it 
lm«." 

"  Itut  why  didn't  you  toll  me  ?  " 

"  .'^ure  it's  because  I  coul  in't  bear  to,  Inez 
darling.  You'd  liave  thoupat  of  mo  as  a  de- 
ceiver— as  a  supplanting  Jn.eob — when  nil  the 


time  I  was  as  innocent  as  a  child.  Roally. 
Inez  darling,  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  tell 
it,  and  I  was  «o  troubled  about  it,  too,  all  the 
time." 

"  But  why  did  yoi>  always  talk  as  though 
he  were  buried  here,  ond  come  with  mc  to 
proy  over  his  grave  ?  " 

'Because,  Inez  darling,  he  i»  buried  here, 
vith  dear  mamma  and  poor,  dear  Clara.  His 
remains  were  brought  here  from  Mordaunt 
Ma>;or  by  poor,  deor  grandpa  ;  and  oh  !  but 
it's  m;s«'lf  that's  fairly  heart-broken  with 
an.\iety  about  him  this  blessed  moment,  so 
it  is." 

"  lie  was  never  brought  here,"  ?aid  Bloke, 
sadly  ;  "  none  of  those  graves  are  lierc.  Do 
you  want  to  know  why  you  were  brought 
here  ?  I'll  tell  you — I  must — though  it  is 
torment  even  to  think  of  it." 

And  noMf  Inez  had  to  listen  to  the  story 
of  Ulake.  Under  any  circumstances  such  a 
story  would  have  lieen  owfiil,  indeed ;  but 
now,  in  this  place,  to  hear  tliii  was  more 
than  she  could  bear.  Ulake  did  not  dwell 
much  upon  his  sufferings,  but  she  could  irna- 
c;ine  them.  N'ow,  too,  she  first  learned  the  true 
nature  of  the  Cataconibs,  and  how  terribly 
she  had  been  deceived.  Kven  though  that 
danger  had  passed  away,  yet  tlio  very  thought 
of  it  WHS  80  terrible  that  her  fainting  limbs 
saidt  under  her,  and  she  would  have  fallen 
had  not  IJIako  supported  her. 

But  the  terror  which  the  thought  oi'  this 
recent  di-.ngcr,  and  the  discovery  thot  sIio 
had  been  the  intended  victim  of  Magrathj 
had  given  to  Inez  did  not  seem  to  bo  felt  'oy 
Bessie,  .'^he  stood  there,  pale  as  before,  yet 
with  an  unchanged  face,  listening  to  Blake's 
story,  and  exhibiting  nothing  stronger  thon 
a  very  deep  interest  in  his  narrative.  Inez 
marked  her  calmness,  and  she  wondered  to 
herself  wliat  part  Bessie  had  ta  :en  in  all 
this,  and,  turned  her  sad  eyes  o\er  in  that 
direction.  She  remembered  tnosc  letters  to 
Bes.sie  which  had  never  been  answered.  Shu 
recoiled  her  form.'r  feelings  about  Magralh, 
and  recollected,  too,  how  Bessie  had  brought 
her  back  into  hi.4  power.  What  did  all  this 
mean  ?  Yet  tlio  suspicion  that  rushed  into 
her  mind  was  intolerable,  nor  could  she  bring 
herself  to  put  any  riuestion  to  one  whom  sho 
even  yet  believed  to  be  her  sister. 

It  \\n.i  Uhiko  who  put  the  fiueslion  for 
her.  Turning  to  Bessie,  ho  regarded  her  for 
a  few  i-.iniiicnts  ia  silence,  and  thcu  sa'd : 


S88 


AN'   OrEX   QUESTION'. 


"As  I  came  ii;i  I  saw  Inez  stuiiJiiig  liern, 
Kevin  Muf,'ratli  at  the  fjot  of  tlio  laclJcr, 
about  to  gi)  up,  wliilc  you  were  at  tlio  top 
watoliin^.  Majinith  wps  going  up,  and  you 
were  up  liicro,  ami  I'o  was  going  V)  draw  up 
tliat  ladilcr,  loavinjr  Inez  iicro  as  lie  left  mo." 

"  Sure  lie  novof  could  liavo  done  It  at  all 
at  all,"  cried  Ressio.  "  I  would  never  have  let 
lii:n.  I  lliiiik  it  it  loo  had,  and  vui;  arL"  very, 
very  uukiiul  to  say  Hueli  u  thing,  and  it's  too 
bad,  80  it  Ih.  And  I'll  never  believe.  .lO  I 
won't,  that  it  really  was  my  poor,  dear 
grandpa  tliat  hclraycd  you,  for  there  isn't  the 
le.ist  iiarui  in  life  in  him." 

'*\Vliat  made  hinj  go  away  when  ho  saw 
mo  come  ? " 

Uessie  clasped  her  hands,  with  a  look  of 
sudden  pain. 

"  Oh,  it's  lost  he  is  !  OIi,  the  hitter,  hilter 
bl(  w  ! — 0  grandpa  darling!  where  are  you, 
then? — Oh,  won't  some  of  you  try  to  save 
him  ?     (iwynnio  dearest — " 

SIio  stopped  short  and  looked  earnestly  at 
Givvn.     Hut  (iwyn  averted  his  eyes. 

ISIake's  hist  wiirds  had  strcngthoui'd  the 
■uspicions  whi:;h  Inez  had  liogun  to  feel.  Her 
heart  became  hardened  to  IJessie.  Ilor  atti- 
tude,  described  by  Ill.ake,  gavo  rise  to  a  be- 
lief in  the  very  worst ;  nor  was  it  liaril  to  sec 
that  tho  one  who  had  supplanted  her  at  Mor- 
daunt  Manor  might  have  betrayed  licr  in  tho 
Catacombs. 

"  Bessie,"  said  she,  and,  as  she  spoko,  her 
voice  grew  cold  and  hard,  while  the  indignant 
feeling  that  arose  witliin  her  drove  away  her 
weakness — "  llessie,  what  makes  you  anxious 
about  this  Magrath  ?  Ilo  is  no  relaticn  to 
you,  and  you  have  always  believed  tliat  tho 
Catacombs  were  as  safe  as  tho  upper  streets." 

"Oil,  sure,  Inez  dear,  but  how  can  I  be- 
lieve they're  safe  now,  alter  that  awful  story  ? 
It's  fairly  heart-broken  I  am  with  tho  terror 
of  It.  And  oh  !  if  he  isn't  my  dear  grand- 
papa, ho  is  my  best  and  kindest  friend  ond 
guardian,  so  he  is." 

"  What  made  you  give  that  shriek  ?  You 
mu.'t  then  have  been  ifruid  about  him."  This 
question  was  put  by  lilnke,  in  whose  cars  that 
shriek  had  rung  as  ho  i.uighi  Inez  In  his 
arms. 

"Sure  and  I  was  afraid  he'd  bo  lost,"  g.iid 
Bessie,  "  for  he  went  oir  In  tliu  dark,  without 
his  lantern." 

"Then  vou  knew  that  tho  'atacnmhs 
wero  a  dangerous  plaoo  beloro  you  heard  Ur, 


Klako's  story,"  said  Inez.  "  Vet  you  nl- 
ways  spoke  os  tliough  they  were  a  cimimon 
thoroughfare.'" 

"  No!  these  lowest  stories,  Inesr.  darling," 
said  Ilessie.  "  I'oor  dear  grandpa — for  I 
really  must  call  him  so — always  made  me  un- 
derstand that  they  were  very,  very  danj;er.ms, 
and  really  scarcely  ever  used.  And  I  didn't 
tell  you,  because  I  didn't  wish  to  make  you 
feel  badly,  so  I  didn't,  Iicz  darling." 

"  O  ILssie  !  "  said  Inez,  "  I  would  irive  all 
I  Imvo  if  I  could  feel  toward  you  as  I  used  to. 
Ilut  I  remember  o  thousand  little  things  which 
show  that  you  have  never  been  candid.  Why 
did  you  tako  tlii;  name  of  Inez,  when  my  poor 
papa  came  homo  ?  ' 

"  Ah  !  sure,  Inez  darling,  it  was  that  very 
thing  tliat  always  made  mo  have  the  sore 
heart,  and  I  couldn't  bear  to  tell  you  ;  but  I 
knew  how  he  hated  me,  and  I  loiijed  for  his 
love,  ond  co  I  met  him,  nut  os  his  hatetl 
daughter  Ilessie,  but  os  his  lovetl  daughter 
Inez." 

Inez  turned  away.  ,'^Iie  felt  l)C'«il.lercd, 
anil  ilid  not  know  what  to  say.  She  trusted 
Ilessie  no  longer;  yet  Ilcssio  thus  far  had 
triumphantly  maintained  her  innocence. 

"His  dau^rhter!"  said  lllake.  — "  Inez, 
that  is  all  a  faluieation  of  our  enemy  Miigrnili. 
My  t.otlier  has  tolJ  me  all.  Mie  was  with 
your  mother  when  she  died.  There  never 
was  any  other  child  but  yourself  and  Clara. 
And,  as  to  the  one  who  has  taken  your  place, 
do  not  let  any  sisterly  feelings  shield  Ik  r  from 
your  suspicions,  for,  by  minute  ii  ipiiries 
about  her,  my  mother  feels  certain  that  she 
is  H'.;s,.ie  M.igratli,  tho  daughter  of  Kevin  >!a- 
grath.  It  was  fur  her  that  he  labored.  ."^Iio 
thiti  personated  you,  took  your  naiiie,  wel- 
comeil  your  father,  who  died  believing  in  her. 
She  is  the  one  who  has  defraiidcil  y<iu  out  of 
your  father's  home,  and  your  falhei's  heart." 

.\t  this  Inez  was  so  astounded  that  sho 
had  not  one  word  to  say.  This  diselosiiro 
completed  tho  revolution  <d°  feeling  that  hud 
been  going  on  in  her  ;  tho  straago  suspicions 
«if  her  Toris  prison  wero  turned  from  Saun- 
ders to  Ilessie  ;  and  it  seemeil  now  to  her 
that  the  niinnte  knowledge  which  M.i^ratli 
had  po»ses:U'd  of  her  life  iiud  feelings  had  not 
beun  c<mimunieutod  to  him  by  her  serv.tnl, 
but  rather  by  '.ler  friend  nnd  conlidunte.  l'(>r- 
h«ps  it  was  her  assistance  lli;(i  had  )iat  her 
flrst  in  .M.tgratli's  power.  Ila\  lu^  Icurned  the 
truth  about  her  father,  she  was  now  -\blc  tu 


CONCLUSION. 


22!) 


rstimalc  that  Paris  plot  to  In  full  extent,  and 
tliu  confederate  whom  Ma{;r;ith  must  linvc 
lied  Rccmcd  to  be  Ilcssie.  And  yet — ai  d  yet 
— HcgHle'a  innoecnt  face,  i.er  niii.iii!^  »vay», 
her  lovuig  words  ! — but  tlx.'ii,  hud  ahu  ndt  do- 
fraiideil  her  of  her  dearest  and  hulic<it  treas- 
ure— a  fathcr'8  dying  blessing? 

Hossie  heard  Ulako  without  Intoriuptlnp 
him,  and  with  a  ehildlike  wonder. 

"  Well,  Dr.  Ulake,"  said  she,  "  I'm  sure 
1  don't  really  see  how  your  inanir.a  can 
know  all  about  that,  and  know  >>'Mer  than 
my  dear  grandpa.  I'ra  sure  I've  always  be- 
lieved that  I  was  Inez.  Hli/.abetli  Morilaunt, 
nnd  that  Mordaunt  Manor  was  mine.  I'm 
sure  dear  grandpa  woulcin't  deceive  mo  so, 
and  tell  such  wicked,  wicked  storie.4,  ho  ho 
wouldn't ;  and  I'm  sure  I  shouldn't  bo  sorry 
at  all  at  nil,  so  I  wouldn't,  if  it  were  to  bu 
really  an  you  say,  and  if  dear  grandpa  was  to 
turn  out  to  be  my  own  papa,  for  really  I  love 
him  like  a  papa  ;  and  oh,  where  is  ho  now  ? 
mill  why,  oh,  why  i^'on't  some  one  go  af:cr 
liiui  ?  (iwyniiic  dear  !  Oh,  my  dear  darling 
own  (iwynnic! " 

They  nil  stood  looking  nt  her  :  Illako  cold 
nnd  utterly  unbelieving  in  her  ;  Inez  a'lenatcd 
and  indignant;  Kane  stern  nnd  austere  nnd 
.solemn  UH  I'ato.  IJut  Ue.s.sic  regarded  only 
(iwyn. 

lie  had  seen  i.er  ns  ho  came  up  to  this 
place,  but  had  averted  hii  eyes  ;  nor  had  ho 
given  her  one  look  since.  IIo  had  heard 
eveiy  word.  Dark  recoUec'.ions  nnd  rus- 
pieions  had  arisen  in  tie  mind  of  Inez,  but 
these  wrro  as  notliitrt;  when  compared  with 
t'ioso  that  aroao  witiiii  his  mind.  He  hail 
conio  and  found  her  hcr.>,  and  the  sight  of  her 
had  been  enough.  No',  ono  word  of  exriisc 
or  of  exculpation  or  of  explanation  that  she 
had  uttered,  not  the  whito  innoecneo  of  her 
face,  nor  the  ehildlike  wonder  of  her  cxpros- 
nion  nor  the  steadfasi  and  open  pniA'  of  her 
glori  JUS  eyes,  nor  the  uneniljarra»'>i'd  luso  of 
her  nnnner,  could  shako  in  ttia  •lightest  dc* 
f^ree  the  conclusion  tu  which  ho  had  come. 
As  ho  stood  there  the  breach  that  alreaily  ex. 
isted  between  him  and  lur  widened  every 
nionient  with  every  new  ihoi..:lit  of  his  mind, 
until  nt  Inst  it  had  grown  to  hn  a  great  gulf 
fixed  between  them — inipasitable  (orever  ! 

These  thoughts  were  terrible.  The  centre 
of  them  nil  was  that  scene,  kniinn  miiy  to  jirr- 
Hi'h  ni'.d  him,  on  the  top  of  theelilY,  wIutc  Kane 
hung  suspended.      Tlie  drond  suspicion  thnt 


then  had  flashed  across  Ids  .idni'i  and  canset* 
him  to  Ftrike  her  down,  now  rehired  in  all  \U 
force  ;  from  these  his  mind  rceurr  'd  to  other 
recollections,  nil  of  which  assumed  a  new 
moaning.  Kvcry  net  if  her  Ule— her  sudden 
arrival  nt  Mordnuat  Manor — her  ottitudo  tow- 
nid  her  supposed  father— her  flghtfrom  him. 
self— her  proposal  to  i;:olraet  the  H'.paralion 
so  as  to  bo  with  Inez — her  rcqucbl  that  he 
should  bring  Kano  to  Home — all  rose  before 
him  full  of  nppalling  meaning.  Why  did  sbo 
remain  witli  Inez.  ♦ — to  bring  Iter  here  I  Why 
did  she  wish  him  to  bring  linno  to  Homo? — 
to  use  him  as  a  decoy  in  completing  the  work 
in  Hhieh  shu  had  failed  on  the  ciifT!  Upon 
these  conclusions  his  mind  grew  fixed  ;  nor 
could  the  rceolleclion  of  her  love  and  gentle- 
ness and  tenderness  hhnko  him  from  them. 

."^o  that  now,  when  Uessio  turned  from  the 
others  to  him,  and  made  this  direct  appeal  in 
her  own  old  t(!iio  of  love  and  conlidenee,  he 
raised  his  head  and  turned  his  eyes  upon  her. 
Tho  face  which  he  thus  turned  showed  ull  tlie 
anguish  which  ho  was  sufl'ering  ;  his  brow  was 
<lark  with  fixed  and  unalterable  gloom  ;  and, 
ii!  the  stony  look  which  met  her  eyes,  might 
be  seen  despair.  It  was  but  for  a  moment 
that  ho  looked  at  her,  and  then  he  was  about 
to  say  something,  but  he  was  int?rrupted  by 
Kane. 

"  Well,"  sold  ho,  "  after  all,  he  is  a  fellow, 
croaturo  ;  and,  for  my  part,  I  ih'ii'i  want  him 
to  perish  here.  We've  eorao  prepared  for  enier. 
genciea — so,  (iwyn,  what  do  you  say  ?  Let's 
unroll  our  string,  and  explore.  You  take  tho  , 
ladder,  and  I'll  take  tho  clow.  Hut  hadn't 
you  better  all  go  up  first?  " 

"Slegoup!"  exclaimed  Ilessie.  "And 
poor  dear  grandpa  as  good  as  lost,  nnd  mo 
tho  heart-broken  girl  that  I  am!  What  a 
very,  very  strango  proposal !  It's  myself 
that  would  far  rfcther  |i;i)  w!tli  you,  so  I  would, 
and  oh,  I  do  «•>  wish  that  you  would  let  me." 

"  No,''  ••i<l  Kane  ;  "  you  would  be  nn  in. 
c''ml>rance.     We  must  go  alone.'' 

Klake  would  have  been  glad  to  get  Inez 
into  the  upper  world,  but  Hessio  was  firm  in 
her  decision  ;  and,  as  they  eould  not  Uavo  her 
here,  nor  let  heremt'urrass  Kane's  movements, 
they  had  to  wait  with  Iter.  SoKanetiok  the 
clew  and  lamp,  nnd  walked  on,  unrolling  the 
string  «s  he  went,  whili) 'iwyn  follow)  d,  with 
his  lamp  nnd  the  Indiln.  He  passed  Jiessin 
without  a  worti,  nor  did  ho  look  ...  '"•■• 
Ihongli  sho  wni  standing  close  by  the  i«<!d«r 


230 


AN   OPEN  QUESTION. 


1^ 


^ 

\i- 

1 

in'' 

i' 

1; 

\'i 

!' 

..n-i 

II' 


M  ho  took  it  down.  Dos»ic  watched  the  two 
as  they  went  fnr  up  the  pnssagc-way  until 
they  disappi'iircd  in  ihc  distance. 

Then  she  turned  mound  wilii  a  littic  sigh. 

"I'm  (iiire,"  caiJ  she,  "one  would  think 
that  poor  dear  Gwynnic  had  got  over  all  af- 
fection for  me." 

After  this  she  relapsed  into  silence,  and 
stood  tlirre,  her  face  Inrncd  in  tiic  direction 
where  K.ane  and  Gwjn  had  pone.  n.»sil  and 
Inez,  oec'sic-.ti.ly  conversed  in  lo>  ■  wliispers, 
bi!t  th"y  '^•'  .cssed  no  remark  to  Bessie.  So 
those  lliree  remained  for  nearly  an  hour,  un- 
til nt  length  ft  light  appeared  far  up  tlie  pas- 
Bnge-'vay,  and  Jessie  advanced  a  few  Mteps  in 
eager  anxiety.  After  a  time  an  exclamation 
of  disappointment  escaped  her. 

There  were  only  two  figures  1 

Soon  Kane  and  (iwyn  readied  the  spot, 
Gwyn  standing  aloof. 

"  We  have  found  nothinp,"  said  Kane, 
"  and  have  come  back  to  make  preparations 
for  a  more  thorough  search.  I  propose  now 
that  we  go  up,  and  let  the  ladies  find  some 
place  of  safety.  Wo  can  then  find  others  to 
come  down  and  help  us  here.  Meanwhile,  I 
have  left  the  clew,  as  far  as  it  ran,  en  the 
floor.  We  can  al.«o  leave  the  ladder  here, 
and  some  lanterns  with  matches." 

Tills  proposal  was  agreed  to  at  once,  and 
they  all  ascondc<l.  lilake  led  t!ic  way  to  the 
well-remembered  opening.  Inci  walked  by 
his  side.  Bessie  followed,  silent  and  pensive. 
Then  came  Kane.  I.a«t  of  all,  (Jwyn.  On 
reachiiig  the  house,  they  went  to  the  upper 
rooms,  where  lUake  perceived,  to  his  gurprisc, 
the  ifigns  of  long  occupation 

To  his  offer  that  the  ladies  should  leave, 
Bessie  gave  a  positive  refusal. 

"  Leave,  is  it  ?  "  said  she ;  "  and  me  ex- 
pecting my  dear  grandpa  evc/y  minute  ?  Vv'hy, 
really,  how  very,  very  absurd !  And  yoj,  Inez ; 
why,  what  can  you  possibly  be  thinking  of  ? 
You  won't  leave  me  this  nay,  will  you,  dar- 
ling V  III!  bo  BO  very,  very  lonely,  and  so 
awfully  sad  to  have  nobody  but  poor,  dear 
old  Mrs.  llieki'  Lugrin." 

Inez  said  but  little.  Blake  had  told  her 
of  lodgings  where  i<lie  would  be  sale  ;  he  had 
also  told  her  of  ho  letter  that  he  had  written 
to  Ms  mother,  iiiid  Ida  PTpeetatinn  that  she 
would  come  to  Home.  He  also  found  time 
to  tell  her  about  Clara.  So  that,  even  if 
there  had  bciii  no  oiIht  fo-ling,  the  excite- 
ment of  Inez  about  this  long-loHt  sister,  and 


her  Intense  dc^'iro  to  see  her,  would  of  itself 
have  drawn  her  away.  But,  apart  from  this, 
it  was  impossible  now  that  she  should  ever 
again  consent  to  live  under  the  same  roof  with 
Bessie.  Inez,  therefore,  went  with  Basil  to 
the  lodging-house  olrcady  mentioned,  where 
he  left  her. 

They  then  communicated  with  the  police, 
and  a  detachment  of  men  was  furnished,  com- 
petent for  the  purpor-e,  who  accompanied 
them  to  tho  Catacombs.  Here  a  long,  pain- 
ful, and  most  exhaustive  search  was  made. 

But  of  tho  fugitive  they  found  not  a 
trace. 

The  mournful  news  was  communicated  to 
Bessie  by  Kane.  Rwyn  still  held  aloof.  Be:i- 
sic'a  face  wore  a  look  of  the  deepest  possible 
distress,  and  siie  was  silent  for  a  lonp  time. 

"Sure,"  said  she,  with  a  little  sigh,  "it's 
myself  that's  got  the  sore  heart,  and  I  cannot 
help  feeling  very,  very  uneasy ;  and  it's  really 
awful,  you  know,  dear  Kane;  but,  after  all, 
poor,  dear  grandpa  is  so  awfully  clever  that 
he'll  find  his  way  out  of  it  ytt.  So,  I'll  wait 
here,  and  try  to  hope  for  the  best.  But,  do 
you  know,  Kane  dear,  it's  awfully  lonely  here, 
with  only  poor,  dear  old  Mrs.  Hicks  Lugrin; 
and  I'm  awfully  sorry  thnt  dear,  darling  Inez 
took  sucli  a  dislike  to  the  house,  and  I  do 
wish  she  would  come  and  see  mo,  so  I  do;  or 
tell  me  where  she  is.  And  oh,  how  good  it  is 
for  you  and  dear,  darling  Uwynnlo  to  take 
such  pains  about  poor,  dear  grandpa  I  And 
tell  dear,  darling  (iwynnic  that  my  poor  little 
brains  have  been  so  upset  by  all  these  long 
sto:-ie9  that  I  don't  know  hardly  where  I  am. 
I'm  not  papa's  daughter,  it  sccnis,  and  I'm  no 
relation  to  my  darling  sister;  and  sure,  I'm 
beginning  to  expect  to  hear  next  t'lat  I'm  not 
dear  old  (Jwynnie'fl  wife.  And  that  would  be 
so  very,  very  sad !  " 

Bessie  ended  this  in  a  plaintive  voice,  and 
looked  mournfully  at  Kane  with  her  largo 
blue  eyes.  They  were  full  of  jiolhos,  and 
Kane  felt  very  much  perplexed  and  puzzled, 
after  all,  about  Bessie. 

Kane  went  away,  with  his  mind  full  of 
spreulations  about  Bes.sie,  recalling  her  as  he 
hud  known  her  at  liuthven  Towers,  and  try- 
ing in  vain  to  find  some  way  by  which  she 
eo'ild  bo  reconciled  with  her  husband.  But 
thei-c  thoughts  were  all  driven  out  by  new 
ones,  which  were  suggested  by  certain  inior- 
niation  which  he  received  from  Blake. 

Tor  Blake,  on  leaving  the  Catacombs,  af- 


CONCLUSION. 


231 


f  itself 
9tn  Una, 

Id  over 
oof  with 
ISnsil  to 
J,  wlicre 


tcr  this  last  vain  search  after  the  missing 
man,  had  gone  to  tlio  lodgings  wlierc  Inez 
now  was,  to  inquire  after  lier  welfare ;  and, 
on  arriving  there,  had  to  his  amazement  found 
his  mother.  Witii  her  was  ("iara,  wlio  li.id 
already  made  herself  known  to  Inez,  and,  at 
the  very  time  of  his  arrival,  the  two  sisters 
were  explaining  to  one  anotlier  all  about 
their  respective  past.  Clara  was  not  a  Sister, 
after  all.  She  had  never  taken  the  vows,  and, 
no  sooner  had  Mrs.  Wyvernc  heard  this,  than 
she  resolved  to  cfl'ect  a  reunion  between  those 
two  who  had  been  so  strangely  divided,  and 
who  still  felt  such  undying  love.  To  do  this 
in  the  shortest  and  best  wiv,  ;she  concluded 
to  persuade  Clara  to  accompany  her  to  her 
own  lodgings.  Tins  Clara  did,  at'cer  a  brief 
explanation  to  the  good  "Sisters."  On  ar- 
riving there,  Mrs.  'Wyvernc  had  found  her 
son's  letter.  She  had  not  been  able  to  leave 
immeiiiatoly,  but  had  remained  behind,  per- 
suading Clara  to  accompany  her  to  Rome. 
To  this  Clara  at  length  consented,  and,  with 
her  desire  to  meet  her  husband,  was  mingled 
anxiety  about  her  sister.  The  sister  had  been 
found,  but  tlic  meeting  with  the  husband  had 
yet  to  be. 

Mrs.  Wyverne  told  Blake  every  thing,  and 
urged  him  to  prepare  Kane  for  the  meeting 
in  whatever  way  he  might  think  best.  Ulake, 
after  some  consideration,  judged,  from  his 
knowledjrc  of  Kane's  character  and  feelings, 
that  the  best  way  to  prepare  him  would  be  to 
tell  him  the  simple  truth.  This  he  decided 
to  do;  and  thus,  on  seeing  Kane,  tliis  was 
the  information  which  he  gave,  and  which 
put  a  complete  stop  for  the  time  to  the  spec- 
ulations of  the  latter  about  Bessie. 

Over  that  meeting  between  thc?o  two,  who 
had  loved  so  well  and  suffered  so  much,  it  is 
best  to  draw  a  veil.  Clara's  solf-rcproachcs, 
about  what  she  c'-"  '•  .cred  her  cowardice  and 
treachery,  were  not  justified  by  the  opinion 
of  the  one  who  was  most  concerned  ;  and  her 
fears  about  Kane's  indignation  proved  un- 
founded. It  was  much  for  Kane  to  be  freed 
from  the  remorse  which  for  years  had  blight- 
ed his  life;  it  was  far  more  lo  receive  as  ris- 
ing from  the  dead  one  over  wliose  memory  he 
had  wept,  and  over  whose  supposed  grave  h 
had  mourned.  In  tbo  interchange  of  confi- 
dence and  the  recital  of  tbrtr  mutual  experi- 
ences much  had  tn  bo  explained;  and  among 
these  explanations  was  thut  grave  itself;  but 
this  was  nt  last  accounted  for,  satisuctorily 


enough  to  their  minds,  by  the  peculiar  char- 
acter of  Kevin  Magrath,  who  alwoys  did  his 
work  thoroughly,  and  who,  if  he  wished  the 
death  of  Clara  to  bo  believed  in,  would  at 
once  find  some  means  to  procure  a  grave 
which  might  pass  for  hers.  Kane  thus  found 
that  lie  hod  been  mourning  and  praying  over 
the  grave  of  a  stranger,  or  perhaps  over  a 
box  of  stones,  at  the  very  time  when  the  one 
whom  he  mourned  had  over  and  over  again 
crossed  his  path — and  at  the  very  time,  indeed, 
when  she  herself  stood  before  him. 

No  sooner  did  Mrs.  Wyverne  hear  about 
Bessie,  and  Kane's  report  of  the  last  inter- 
view with  her,  than  she  determined  to  sec  for 
herself  this  young  girl  whose  real  character 
still  remained  so  great  a  puzzle.  She  there- 
fore went  there  with  Blake.  Bc^sio  was 
mournful,  yet  amiable,  and  received  her  visi- 
tors with  sad  politeness.  She  questioned 
Blukc  closely  about  his  search,  and  still 
evinced  a  "onfidenco  in  the  return  of  her 
"  dear  grandpa."  Mrs.  Wyvcrno  cxprcs.sed 
a  wish  to  see  Mrs.  Lugrin,  whereupon  Bessie 
at  once  summoned  her, 

Mrs.  Lugrin  appeared,  showing  no  change 
from  what  she  had  been  at  Mordaunt  Manor. 
She  entered  the  room  placidly,  and  looked 
around,  when  her  eyes  rested  on  Mrs.  Wy- 
vernc. Perhaps  Bessie  had  not  understood 
Mrs.  Wyverne's  true  name  and  position  ;  per- 
haps she  had  not  given  the  right  name  to 
Mrs.  Lugrin;  at  any  rate,  Mrs.  Lugrin  wob 
evidently  much  agitated  ot  the  sight  of  her. 
She  stood  for  a  moment  staring,  and  then 
sank  into  a  chair. 

Mrs.  Wyverne  was  quite  self-possessed. 
She  surveyed  Mrs.  Lugrin  placidly,  and  then 
said,  in  u  quiet  voice  : 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  meet  you  under  such 
painful  circumstances." 

She  would  have  said  more,  but  Mrs.  Lu- 
grin  gave  her  no  chance,  for,  rising  suddc.dy, 
and  without  a  word,  she  abruptly  quitted  the 
room,  wliilc  Bessie  looked  on  in  evident  won- 
derment. After  this  Mrs.  Wyvei  ne  ond  Blake 
soon  retired. 

"  It  is  as  I  thought,"  said  she  to  Blake. 
"This  Mrs.  Lugrin  is  Mrs.  Kevin  Mugrath. 
I  remember  her  perfectly,  and  she  remembers 
me.  Your  Bessie  is  her  daughter — Bessie 
Magrath ! " 

"  1  vtondcr  how  much  she  herself  has 
known  of  all  this?" 

"  That,"  said  Mrs.  Wyvernc,  "  is  to  me  a 


a33 


AN  OPEN   QUESTION'. 


perfect  puzzle.  Y<)iir  account  of  her  roakcu 
her  Hccin  guilty;  but  her  own  fucu  and  man- 
ner make  her  8cem  iuiiucfnt.  I  cannot  ile- 
ciile,  and  ii  will  ulwnyit  rvniuin  a  mystery  to 
nio  wlictlicr  she  h  innocent  or  guilty.  For 
^lio  may  have  been  hrouglit  up  iu  tho  belief 
that  iihu  WII3  liernnl  Mordaunt'a  daughter, 
aiul  may  have  acted  ihruughout  in  perfect 
good  faith." 

llinko  Buiil  nothing.  Ilia  own  opinion 
about  ilfcflsiu  was  mo.st  decided  and  mcst  hos- 
tile ;  yet  so  plausible  had  been  lies.siu'a  own 
vindication  of  herself  that  he  hardly  knew 
what  to  gay. 

Two  days  after  this  (Iwyn  received  a  note, 
it  wail  from  UeSiiic,  and  ran  as  follows : 

"  I  have  been  hoping  against  hope,  Owyn- 
nio  darling,  about  poor  dear  grandpa,  but  I'm 
nfraid  I  must  give  him  up.  It's  awfully  nad, 
no  it  is,  and  I'm  quite  heart-broken,  bo  I  am. 
I  cannot  bear  to  stay  liero  any  loi:gcr,  so  do 
not  think  it  strange,  dear,  if  1  tell  you  that  I 
nm  going  away.  I  am  going  with  dear  old 
Mrs.  I.ugrin  to  her  home.  It  is  in  liallyshan- 
noM,  near  Limerick.  Wo  are  poor  now,  you 
and  I,  (jwynnie  darling,  and  k'.cht  Kano  is  the 
b:ironet  and  tho  ownor  of  Kuthven  Towers, 
where  wo  were  bo  happy;  and  dear  Inez  had 
Murdaunt  Manor,  where  dear  papa  died.  It  Is 
uli  Ko  very,  verv  strange,  and  so  awfidly  sad, 
tli:it  it  seems  li..c  a  dieain.  Hut  you,  (!wyn- 
nic  darling,  love  me  still,  I  know  well,  and 
this  is  tho  only  thing  in  life  that  comforts 
mo.  You'll  have  to  get  your  own  living,  dear, 
and  I  will  be  patient,  and  wail  till  you  find 
Ronu'thing  to  do,  and  can  make  a  homo  for 
your  poor  Hosiiic.  And  I  shall  always  ho 
looking  forward  to  tho  time  when  you  will 
como  for  me,  (Iwynnie  darling,  and  I  will  bo 
content  and  happy  wherever  you  may  take 
me.  I  feel  very  sad,  dear,  and  it  soems  tome 
that  you  have  not  been  <|uito  so  kind  of  late 
as  you  used  to  be,  but  I  know  you  love  mo, 
and  you  have  all  tho  love  of  your  poor  little 
girl.  (live  my  love  to  darling  Inez.  I  should 
like  to  Hi'o  her,  but  am  too  8a<l.  (live  my 
lovo  to  dear  Kano  also,  and  tell  him  I  shall 
never  forget  his  kindness  about  poor  dear 
grandpa.  You  will  liH  mo  hear  from  you 
Boon,  (iwynniu  d.irlinjr,  and  como  soon  to  your 
poor  little  loving 

"  I}F.S.SIK." 

It  wa»  a  very  Bad  letter.  There  were  also 
blolB  on  it  that  scetncd  like  tonrs.     linyn  was 


moved  most  deeply,  and  iiovcr  showed  it  to 
any  one ;  yet  ho  did  not  do  as  ho  once  would 
liavo  done — ho  did  not  haiten  away  after  tlic 
beautiful  young  biide  who  had  scut  him  su 
mournful  and  so  loving  an  appeal.  Ko  ;  the 
deeiiiion  So  which  ho  lud  como  in  thu  Cata- 
combs was  unaltciablc,  and  ho  prepared  with 
Blern  inlen.sity  of  purpose  to  carry  it  into  exe- 
cution. 

This  decision  ho  announced  to  Kane.  It 
was  to  go  to  America,  where  ho  proposed  to 
work  out  his  own  fortune  in  any  way  whi'jh 
circumstances  might  present.  Kano  tiled  to 
dissuade  him,  but  in  vain,  (iwyn  was  not  to 
bo  moved. 

"  It's  no  use,"  said  he.  "  It's  all  up  be- 
tween her  and  mo.  I'vo  got  nothing  to  live 
for.  Kuthren  Towers  is  yours,  and  you're 
the  baronet.  I'm  an  outcast  now.  You  don't 
know  all  that's  taken  place  between  her  ami 
mo,  you  know.  Wo  shall  never  meet  again ; 
and  still  I  love  her  as  well  us  ever.  I  can't 
help  tiiat.  Don't  try  to  persuadu  me.  It's 
no  use.  As  to  money,  there's  enough  for  mo 
in  a  little  property  of  mother's  that  I  found 
out  only  hiMt  year.  I'll  take  that,  and  it'll  bo 
enouf;h  for  mo  to  grub  along  with.'' 

In  fact,  (iwyn  showed  himself  beyond  tho 
reach  of  arj^umenl,  and  Kane  could  only  con- 
clude to  yield  to  hin>  for  the  present,  and  hope 
for  better  things  in  the  future.  So  ho  made 
(iwyn  promise  to  write  iiini  at  times  to  let 
him  know  his  movements. 

Gwyn  left  Homo  on  tho  following  day,  ond 
wont  to  America. 

In  u  few  days  tho  rest  of  them  rcturnoil 
to  England. 

Sir  Kano  and  Lady  Uuthvtnwent  to  Kuth- 
ven Towers. 

Uaaii  Wyverno  was  married  to  Inez  Mor- 
daunt,  ami  lived  at  Mordaunt  Manor.  His 
mother  lived  witli  them.  Ho  found  that  Uen- 
nigar  Wyverne's  estate  was  immense.  How 
much  of  this  liad  been  gained  froni  the  Mor- 
daunt property  ho  could  never  flr.d  out ;  but 
his  marriage  with  Inez  )U'eventcd  him  from 
feeling  any  unoasiueys  on  iliis  score.  Clara 
had  superior  claims  to  .Morduunt  Manor,  hut 
to  these  she,  as  well  as  her  husband,  was  ut- 
terly indin'erent,  and  insisted  on  transferring 
them  to  Inez,  lly  this  nrrangemeiit  tht;  two 
sisters  wero  aide  to  bo  near  one  nnotlior,  and 
their  husbands  were  also  able  to  perpetuate 
the  warm  liioii(Miip  which  they  had  first 
formed  in  I'aris, 


i 


coxcLisioy. 


S33 


Ld  it  to 
Ic!  wuuld 

It'lcT  tllC 
llilll    HU 

t>o ;  tliu 

|liu  Catik- 

I'd  with 

Into  cxo> 


Out  of  all  thcso  crentft  thrro  renmined 
two  tliln(;s  which  never  ceased  to  bo  a  puzzio 
to  Kunc  Ituthvc'ii. 

Olio  of  tiic»o  wn«  the  clmrftctcr  of  ncssic. 
His  last  intiTview  with  licr  hud  prodiii'cil  ii 
pruluiiiid  iiii|)n'.'<.''iuii  on  him,  uiid  Iut  (;i'iitlo 
manner,  her  iniiocrnt  words,  und  linr  sweet 
expression,  hud  revived  for  ii  time  tiio«o  sen- 
tinieiits  of  iineetionatc  mlniinilion  which  he 
Lnd  coneeived  toward  her  nt  liiithveM  Tow- 
ers. Her  own  exculpation  of  lierHcIf  Heemcd 
to  him  to  bo  more  just  than  the  oihers  Biip- 
posed,  and  lie  eoiild  not  hrip  clingiii);  to  (lie 
thoiiglit  that  she  had  tiien  deceived  rather 
llian  deeeivinf?. 

The  other  puzzle  was  tho  disappearance 
of  Kevin  Mngrath.  The  most  thorough  search 
had  revealed  no  trace  of  iiiin.  To  Kane's 
mind  this  disappearance  was  too  utter.  Ilail 
he  perlsheil,  hv  tli<JU}:iit  that  some  trace  of 
bis  remains  would  have  been  found.  Uc  could 


uot  help  believin(»  that  he  had  recovered 
from  his  lirst  panic,  and  had  foimd  soino 
mode  of  elVeclinj»  his  escape;  he  reflected 
that  ho  was  possibly  as  familiar  with  the.-o 
passafietf  as  lie  h;.d  iirctet  "  'o  be,  nnd  that 
so  cool  and   lieen  a  sj)i..  'ot  lii<ely  to 

yield  pernmnenlly  to  u  shucii  .  .error.  Con- 
scipii'ntly  Kane  held  the  theory  of  Hessie's 
innoeeneo  and  of  Kevin  Ma;;ralli's  escape. 
Moreover,  ho  believed  that  lliey  were  both 
livinj;  very  comfortably  toj;i>iiiir  as  father  ainl 
daughter  with  Mrs.  Kevin  Magrath,  the  wifo 
and  mother,  somewhere  in  Ireland — in  lluU 
lyshannon,  or  some  other  place. 

This  opinion  Clara  sliared  with  him. 
Hut  all  the  others  believed  implicitly  in 
the  guilt  of  Ilcssio  and  in  the  death  of  Kevin 
Magrath. 

For  my  own  port,  if  I  may  offer  nn  opin. 
ion  before  retiring  from  the  ceenc,  I  would 
simply  rdnark  that  it  is  an  ojkii  qucslioii. 


T  u  K      K  .N  D . 


T 


I'' 

;!  tj 


'»  Ifl 


l|llj 


^'n 


I 


BOOKS  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED  DY  D.  APPLETON  &  CO. 


»•»  D.  Appltlon  tt  Co,'*  pubUcationt  art  uiualhjjor  lolt  by  alt  booktellcn  ,  but  aii>,  booh  not  obtain- 
able  at  a  book-ttove  will  be  viaileJ,  post-free,  or  tent  by  fxproa,  prepaid,  to  ani/  part  of  the  United 
tUalo,  by  the  jiiibtithern,  ujmn  receipt  of  the  adwrtitud  price      Calaloc/uei  fnniiahtd  ujton  ap/ilication, 

HE  AXCTEXT  STOXE  IMPfJLMEXTS,   WEAPOXS    AX/) 

Oi'nii'ui'nt.s  (.IMinat  Uritain.     l!y  John  Kva.vs),  !•'  It  S      1  vol.,  fcvo,     Willi  Two  riiitcs 
mid  Four  Hundred  and  S'cvcnty-gix  Woodcuta.     Price,  $C.0() 

IIAXD-IiOOE  OE  CIIEMICA  L  TECHXOLOd  Y.     \\y  Ri  doi.f  Wa(;- 

Nr.ii,  I'll,  n.,  rrofossiir  of  Cliciiiical  Ticlinolopy  In  llie  riiivrrsity  of  M'liit/lMii;.'.  Tr.in.«liito(l 
from  tlu'  sixth  (icrniuii  cditloti,  willi  cxt<  nnivo  A.dilioiis,  by  Win.  DrcbkiH,  Y  L.  S  Willi  W.'A 
lllustrulions.     1  vol.  8vo     701  pagca.     ("lotli.     rrlto,  $0.00. 

THE    VEGETABLE    WORLD:   iKintr  i  History  of  Plants,  witl.  tlioir 

Stnicturt!  nnd  lVciili;ir  I'ropcrlicH.  Adiiptcd  from  tlio  work  of  Lons  ri(itiKR.  Willi  (i(ilo?sary 
of  Hotanical  Terms.     New  and  revifcd  cilition.     Willi  47:!  Illustrations.     Prioe,  fll.nit. 

Thl»  I"  onn  of  tlio  forkH  of  Popninr  Hooks  hv  I.ouln  Flpnlcr.  ol  wtilrli  •■  Tlic  WorM  licfnri'  llip  Pdiipp  " 
mill  "Till.  InfiTt  World"  Imvp  liicl  Ikcm  luibllHlicd,  to  bo  followcil  liy  "Tlio  Ocoiiii  Wnrlil"  iind  "  Kcplllcs 
nnd  nirdB."  They  nrr  sold  nt  llie  low  prli-c  of  $.")..Vt,  jirinlod  In  n  compact  form,  foriiiliiK.  wlicii  complcti', 
nil  Illuetrotcd  I.ibriiry  of  I'upiilar  Scicncv  ol  uncqiiullcd  ( lirnpnrep. 

BESSIE.     A  Novel.     Hy  Jui.ia  Kavaxagii,  author  of  "  Nathalie,"  '  Adcle," 

"  Silvia,"  "  Queen  Mub,"  "  Dora,"  "  Maddiiio,"  etc      1  vol..  «vo      I'i.pcr  tovcr.^      Tiice,  V5  et.«. 

"  ThPfo  t«  n  tpilol  power  In  ilio  wrlllnpn  of  DiN  glficU  author,  wUicU  la  08  Jat  romovcU  (rom  thf  icnsa- 
tlonal  Hcbool  as  any  of  tUo  modem  uovvls  can  b«." 

MAJOn  JOXES'S  COUETSIIIP,  detailed,  with  other  Scenes,  Incidents', 

anil  Adventure?,  in  a  Series  of  LeltcM  liy  Himself.  Ilevised  and  enlarfrtd  To  wliieli  are  aildc.i 
Thirteen  Huinnroun  Sketches.     With  Illustrations  by  Cary.     1  vol.,  I'-'ino      Cloth 

This  liumoronx  volume  \*  now  rcprodnced  wllh  adi1ltlonn  and  niMv  illHutrnllorB.  Ovor  JfiO.OOO ropIcR  I  nvu 
liccn  Fold  sinre  iln  flrsl  li'i'iic,  nnd  the  now  poncrntloii  of  rondiis  wlilcli  linvo  eprung  up  pIucc  wtli  uiidoulit- 
cdly  add  thcli  favorable  tcbtimony  to  the  wit  and  liiimor  wbicli  fill  \l»  pagcii 

LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OF  CAPTAIX  MARRYAT,  R  X.,  author  ol 

"  Peter  Simple,"  "  Japliet  in  Search  of  a  Father,"  etc.  By  lii.s  Daughter,  Floiik.sX'E  Mauiiyat 
(Mrs.  Iloss  Cliurch).     2  vols..  12mo      Cloth      Price  $4.00. 

NATURAL    PIIILOSOPnY:    An  Elementary  Treatise.  Hy  Prof.  Drs 

ciiANFi,,  of  Pari.-*      Translated  ami  edited,  with  extensive  Addition?,  by  J  D.  Kveiiett,  D.  C.  L, 

F.  U.  S  ,  I'l-oftsfor  of  Natural  Philosophy  in  the  Quccn'a  College,  Helfast  Part. IV  Sound  and 
LioiiT.     With  187  'Engravings      Price  ij'J.OO. 

This  work  In  used  nn  n  toxt-book  In  the  Oxford  nnd  ramlirldgr  t'nlveriiilleK.nnd  In  I  ho  oliiof  rollocrsnnd 
Aclcncc  (.'la«so<  in  the  United  Kiimdom  ;  wliilo  in  Kraucc  It  Irns  been  adopted  by  thu  Miiibtcrol  lusitruction 
as  ttic  tcit-l)Oolc  forUovcrDmcnl  Schools. 

RADIANT  HEAT.  A  Series  of  :\remoirs  published  in  the  "Philosophical 
Transactions  and  "  Pliilosc;  l.ica  Magazine,"  with  Additions,  liy  John  Tyndall,  LL.  D., 
F.  U.S.,  Professor  ol  Natural  Philosophy  in  the  Royal  Institution. 


THE  DOCTORS  DILEMMA.. 

8vo.    Paper  covers.    With  Hlustrations 


A  Novel.     By  IIesba  Stuettox.     1  vol., 
Price,  75  cents. 


OVARIAN  TUMORS:  their  Patholotry,  Diairnosis,  and  Trent ment,  espe- 
ci.'illy  by  Ovariotomy.  I?y  K.  IIamioitii  Pkasi.k.i:,  M.  D.,  LL.  D.,  Professor  oCtJyiuecology  in  the 
Medical  Department  of  Dartmouth  ("ollcire  •  Attending  .'^urgcmi  of  the  New  York  State  Wonlan'.^ 
Hospital ;  Consulting  Physician  to  the  .'Strangers'  Ho.-pital;  Covrcsponiiing  Fellow  ol  iho  Obstct- 
rieal  .'^(x-iety  of  Ilcrlin,  and  of  the  (lynivcalo'.'ie.il  Society  of  lloston;  Honorary  Meniber  ol  iho 
Loui-ville  Obstetrienl  f^ociely;  President  of  the  New  York  Aciideniy  of  Medicine,  etc.,  etc. 
With  50  Illustraiions  on  Wood.     1  vol.  8vo.     551  pages 

FORMS  or  WA  TER,  in  Clouds  TJain,  Pvivers,  Too,  and  Glacieii^.  By  Prot: 
.Lia.s  Tyndai.i.,  LL.  D.   F  L  S      1  vol      Clnih      Pr:.  o.  .«:1..M>. 


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1 

COOPER'S 

LEATHER-STOCKING  NOVELS 


•'The  enduring  monuments  of  Fenimore  Cooper  are  his  works.    While  thh 

LOVE  of  country  CONTINUES  TO   PREVAIL,    HIS    MEMORY    WILL    EXIST    IN   THE    HEARTS  OF 
THE  PEOPLE.      So  TRULY   PATRIOTIC  AND  AMERICAN    THROUGHOUT,   THEY    SHOULD    FIND  A 

PLACE  IN  EVERY  AMERICAN'S  LIBRARY." — Daniel  Webster. 


A   NEW   AND 

SPLENDIDLY-ILLUSTRATED  POPTTLAR  EDITION 

OF 
WORLD-FAMOUS 

LEATHER-STOCKING   ROMANCES. 


D.  ArPLETON  ifc  Co.  announce  that  they  have  commenced  the  publication 
of  J.  Fenimore  Cooper's  Novels,  in  a  form  designed  for  general  popular  circu- 
lation. The  Series  will  begin  with  the  famous  "Leather-Stocking  Tales,"  five 
in  number,  and  will  be  published  in  the  following  order,  at  intervals  of  about 
a  month : 

I.  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans. 
II.  The  Deerslayer.  IV.  The  Pioneers. 

III.  The  Pathfinder.  V.  The  Praii'ie. 

This  edition  of  the  "Leather-Stocking  Tales"  will  be  printed  in  handsome 
octavo  volumes,  from  new  stereotype  jilates,  each  volume  superbly  and  fully 
illustrated  with  entirely  new  designs  by  the  distingaislied  artist,  F.  O.  C.  Par- 
ley, and  bound  in  an  attractive  paper  cover.     Price,  15  cents  per  volume. 

Heretofore  there  has  1  Jcn  no  edition  of  the  acknowledged  head  of  American 
romancists  suitable  for  general  popular  circulation,  and  hence  the  new  issue  of 
these  famous  novels  will  be  welcomed  by  the  generation  of  readers  that  have 
fprung  up  since  Cooper  departed  from  us.  As  time  progresses,  the  character, 
genius,  and  value  of  the  Cooper  romances  become  more  widely  recognized;  lie 
is  now  accepted  as  the  great  classic  of  our  American  literature,  and  his  bookp 
as  the  prose  epics  of  our  early  history. 

D.  APPLETON  &  CO..  Publishers,  New  York. 


Mi 


OVELS 


WORKS.    While  thb 

T    IM  THE    HEARTS  OF 
I'HEY    SHOULD    FIND  A 


1  EDITION 


rs 


MANGES. 


ced  the  publication 
moral  popular  circu- 
itocldng  Tales,"  five 
t  intervals  of  about 


>ioneers. 
'rairie. 


printed  in  handsome 
3  superbly  and  fully 
artist,  r.  O.  C.  Dar- 
nts  x>cr  volume. 

ed  head  of  American 
nee  the  new  issue  of 
jf  readers  that  have 
resses,  the  character, 
idely  recognized;  lie 
rature,  and  liis  l)ookp 


jrs,  New  York. 


